Retrieval: Styne Saga, Part 4
by Winchester Mythology
Summary: Reposted. Two years after the events of Dynasty, the Stynes have returned to retrieve the Book of the Damned, but they can't find it alone. They need one of the last people to see it: Jacob Styne. But they don't realize there's only one thing he wants: Sam. A/U set loosely in Season 2/3, featuring a Psychic!Sam and Protective!Dean.
1. Prologue

**Hi guys! So, I'm aware most of you have probably already read a lot of this, but MJ and I have agreed that I will continue it, but with it on my account. Please be assured that this is being done with MJ's full blessing and I'm not changing anything that's already been done. We had 90% of the story mapped out already so, while I may be the one writing it, it is still MJ's work too. But I completely understand and respect her decision to pull back and concentrate on her family.**

 **I'll be reposting a few chapters at a time to give myself a chance to catch up with where we were originally, so please bear with me!**

 **SPN**

 _"As mighty as I'm sure your little family is, mine is a juggernaut. We're not ordinary men...What we are is expendable. I go down, there's an army of replacements behind me."_

 _— Eldon Styne_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia… 26 months ago)**

Hands clawed at her dress. Fingers raked over the thin material, grasping, fondling, searching for a way under… Nameless faces closed in around her, ravenous, relentless… She screamed, but her cries were drowned out by the celebratory clamor filling the ballroom. She tried twisting away, but they were everywhere, an oppressive horde competing for dominance. Against so many assailants, only one man could possibly save her.

She heard his regal voice rise above the noise. "Jessica? Where'd you go, darlin'?"

Her tearful eyes searched for him even though he wasn't searching for her. He'd called the wrong name…

When she finally glimpsed him in the crowd, her heart jolted. Hope sparked in her only to be snuffed out by desperation as a large hand clasped her chin, yanking her head around. A drunken reveler plowed his lips against hers, tangling his other hand roughly in her hair. Bile hit the back of her throat, and she thought frantically of Jacob. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him sauntering away with his back straight, his head held high, his gait proud and confident. He was the strongest man she knew. But he wasn't coming for her; he was going for that other girl…

Despair consumed her as the sea of groping bodies dragged her to the floor, submerging her in a repugnant wave of testosterone and inebriation. Her skirt ripped, but she barely heard it as nails scratched her thighs. She tried turning her head, but couldn't escape the hand snaring her chin. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut, a terrified whimper bubbling out of her throat.

But then… a voice.

 _"Dormite."_

The world turned blissfully empty; the hands fell away; the fear disappeared as the darkness took hold of her. Daisy Parson found herself floating in a black abyss, suspended in time, free from the wedding guests who saw women as nothing but toys to abuse and throw away. It was a dreamless sleep wrapped in oblivion…

Awareness gradually crawled back through her senses as she began to stir, the cold seeping up from the marble floor. It penetrated the thin chiffon material of her blue dress, sending chills down her spine despite the warmth in the air, and the stifling weight on her stomach. Slowly, she opened her eyes, dazed and sluggish. The domed ceiling came into and back out of focus. She blinked blearily, staring up at it in confusion. Then, her chest heaved in a horrified gasp as the memory crashed back into her mind and she scrambled upright, dumping off the man who had landed on top of her. He too was stirring from unconsciousness, but not as quickly. He looked almost hungover.

Nauseous and terrified, Daisy lurched to her feet. The vile swarm of wedding guests were sprawled out in every direction. Some were still sleeping, but many were starting to rouse, and they might want to renew their drunken carnal activities. Daisy caught her breath, eyes widening in panic, tension balling in her gut.

 _Get out! Move!_

Heedless of the people around her, Daisy hastened across the dance floor, stumbling over arms, legs, and bodies. Fear propelled her forward as the memory of aggressive, groping hands and slobbering mouths filled her mind. By the time she reached the edge of the room, she was sobbing almost uncontrollably. Blinded by her tears, she reached for the wall, feeling its cold solidity beneath her palms, but only for a moment. She didn't want her back to the crowd as they moaned and murmured, regaining their senses, and so she reluctantly turned to face them. In the corner by the bridal stage, a massive vase with a beautiful floral display caught her attention. She scurried over to it before she carefully sank down behind it, cowering, hoping no one would notice her there. All she wanted was to escape: for someone to pull her out of this madness. She wanted Jacob! But he was nowhere to be seen.

"What the hell was that?!" exclaimed a voice with a distinct Swiss accent. Daisy buried her face in her hands, curling herself up in a tiny ball as the voice sent new tremors of fear through her. She wanted no part of this. Not anymore.

The voice belonged to Mortimer Styne, an imposing man in his early fifties, dressed in a tailored tuxedo. His stern face was lined with fury, and his grey eyes flashed with rage as he stared at the debacle before him. He clenched his fists, needing a moment to curb his anger. It didn't suit him. As patriarch of the family's Switzerland branch, he prided himself on his discipline, and did not appreciate being caught off guard.

"William! Victor!" he barked, looking around for his brother and son. William, the gaunt but authoritative father of the bride, appeared in the arched doorway that led to the rest of the house. He stalked purposefully toward Mortimer, his mouth twisting in displeasure as he surveyed the disorientated guests. Mortimer gestured at them with one hand, keeping his voice low and hostile. "What is your wife playing at?!"

William glanced up at the bridal stage and narrowed his eyes. When he saw who was missing, he cursed under his breath. "This wasn't Caroline."

Mortimer scoffed. "In this house, with all its wards? No one else could perform such a spell!"

"Sam could," William replied, continuing when Mortimer's look became questioning. "We made allowances for his training."

"Sam?" Mortimer raised an eyebrow. "You mean Jacob's new favorite toy? You can't be serious."

Instead of answering, William set off for the stairs leading up to the stage. Mortimer followed, his frown deepening when they were cut off by a trusted servant. Giles. Calm, collected, sensible Giles. Except now he was timid, anxious, and sweating. He held up his hands, palms spread wide.

"Sir, it's…" He swallowed, averting his eyes. Mortimer watched him suspiciously, then peered over his shoulder to look up at the stage, focusing for the first time on the bridal party. Or rather, what was left of it.

"Victor!" he roared, shoving past Giles, gaze fixed on the trail of blood that trickled out from under the crisp white tablecloth. Heart pounding, he mounted the stairs and circled around the table, only to find his son dead at the foot of an empty chair. Mortimer dropped to his knees, his hands fluttering uselessly over the lifeless body.

 _Victor._

He looked almost peaceful: his eyes were closed and for all the world he could've been sleeping if not for the two gaping bullet holes in his forehead. On the floor next to him, in the pool of blood, Mortimer noticed a pair of discarded handcuffs. He reached out and fingered them with a scowl.

Behind him, William turned, barking orders at Giles. "No one is to leave this ballroom without my authorization, do you understand me?" He stepped up to his younger brother and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. "I'm sorry, Mortimer."

Mortimer's jaw clenched hard, his shoulders broadening as he tensed and rose to his full height, so that he towered over his brother. When he turned, eyes livid, William wisely backed away.

"Bring me that whelp!" he hissed. Sam Winchester had Styne blood on his hands.

All deals were off.

"I can imagine where he went," William assured him, turning to leave the ballroom. Mortimer followed, simmering with hatred. As they stormed out, Giles, Arthur Fontaine, and several other servants could be heard restoring order, soothing the guests and, most importantly, containing them inside. The Stynes had a reputation to uphold, and they would control the narrative before letting anyone go.

When they reached the side door that led to the garden, Mortimer slammed it open and stormed out into the midnight darkness. There was no breeze: not even a sliver of wind could penetrate the magic separating the Styne mansion from the real world. The men stalked forwards, moving across the well-lit but empty patio and lawns. A fountain bubbled tranquilly near a domed gazebo. They passed it in silence, taking a gravel pathway that brought them to a courtyard boxed in by tall green hedges. In the center of the courtyard, perched on a prominent pedestal, loomed the monstrous statue of Vita, a two-headed bird with unfurled wings, raised high against the night: the subject of the Styne family crest.

"Uncle William!"

The two brothers turned at the agonized voice of their nephew, Jacob Styne. He was lying in the shadows on his side, ankles bound and wrists cuffed behind his back. Such restraints should not have held him, but he was injured. Mortimer could see the bullet wounds in his arm and leg. How could this have happened?

While he was still processing the implications, his brother shrieked, and when Mortimer followed his gaze, he discovered yet another body: a woman in a shimmering red dress with long blonde hair.

Caroline.

Her throat had been cut.

William flew to her side, pulling her limp form into his arms. Her head lolled as he cradled her to his chest, rocking her back and forth in a rare display of affection.

Of all the Styne men, William had been the only one to truly love his wife.

With renewed indignation, Mortimer stormed over to Jacob and grabbed him by the throat, hauling him to his knees. Jacob gasped for air, writhing helplessly, too hampered by his restraints to resist. Livid grey eyes met cold blue ones.

"Care to explain this, Jacob?" the elder snapped, glowering at his nephew. "For your sake, it'd better be good." He loosened his grip just enough for Jacob to speak. The younger man's eyes stayed trained on his own; not in a display of defiance, but out of respect. The Stynes were taught never to show fear and never wilt at a confrontation.

"The demon…" he began, his voice strained by Mortimer's grip.

"Azazel?" William's head snapped up, his face a blend of anger and agony. "Azazel killed my Caroline?"

"No, but he orchestrated all of it," Jacob rasped, his gaze flitting between the two men as he shifted uncomfortably, the stone chippings of the courtyard digging into his knees. Mortimer's hand loosened infinitesimally — just enough to give Jacob more room to breathe, but not enough to show he was forgiven for his weakness. Staring back up at Mortimer, he continued. "He smuggled John Winchester into the wedding. He must've opened the portal for the rest of them hunters. _They_ killed Aunt Caroline. _They_ took Sam." His final sentence was a livid snarl, much to Mortimer's disgust. A muscle twitched in the elder's jaw. How dare Jacob lament Sam's desertion over his aunt's death? That snivelling wretch was nothing — an amusement, a novelty. Mortimer's piercing grey eyes slid back to his brother, who was still cradling his wife's lifeless form. She deserved more. Victor deserved more…

"Why did they spare you?" he growled, returning his gaze to Jacob. "They clearly knew their bullets wouldn't hamper you. At least, they weren't _supposed_ to." Jacob flushed at the jab; his jaw tightened but, when he spoke, he maintained a civil tone.

"They had no choice. Sam saw to that. We're bound together," he explained, his lips curving into a malicious smirk. Mortimer's eyes narrowed, his ire rising again. He didn't know what their so-called connection was, but the more he observed, the less he approved, particularly after Jacob's next words. "We must retrieve him at all costs. Now."

Fury scorched through the elder Styne, and his grip tightened again around Jacob's neck at the boy's sheer audacity. Sam Winchester was a nobody!

"He killed my son!" Mortimer roared, spittle flying from his mouth. He watched as Jacob's eyes widened, clearly unaware of what had happened back on the stage in the ballroom.

 _Victor,_ Jacob wondered, _what did you do?_

A certain sense of… satisfaction welled up inside Jacob, along with something else. Pride. There was no love lost between the two cousins; Jacob had already pulled Victor, and his wandering hands, off of Sam once before. It was no surprise that the entitled bastard would try again, especially when Jacob had left Sam handcuffed to a chair. The temptation would've been too much for Victor — Jacob knew how overbearing he could be. No. The only surprise was Sam's ability to fight back: to kill Victor and escape those handcuffs. He really was a prodigy… yet these were not sentiments that Jacob could share with his incensed uncle.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," he appeased, forcing the sincerity into his tone while maintaining a neutral expression. "But Sam cannot be blamed for his actions tonight. We've been over-stimulating him for hours now, and his premonition came true. Aunt Caroline stabbed the girl he loved. He must've felt it. We didn't just break him: we devastated him. And considering his woeful inexperience, sir, if he lost control, it's through no fault of his own. We have to find him. He needs us now more than ever."

"You keep on with this _'we'_ and _'us.'_ The only reason _we_ need to find him is to make him pay for his crimes!" Mortimer snapped, finally releasing his grip on Jacob's throat. He stepped away, his hands balling into fists as Jacob watched him, rotating his head to try and relieve the tension which had built in his neck. Knowing he was treading on dangerous ground, Jacob took a moment, waiting for his uncle to cool down before speaking.

"With all due respect, sir, you don't know him. You don't know the destiny that awaits him. After everything we've sacrificed, we can't give up now. He's worth too much, and believe me, we are on the brink of success."

Mortimer scoffed, his expression full of disbelief. He turned his attention to William, who had laid Caroline out reverently, kneeling by her body while resting her hands across her stomach.

"Tell me this is all nonsense, William!" he demanded. "Nothing is worth the death of my heir!" He watched impatiently as his brother stood up, walked over to Jacob, and pulled a knife from a concealed ankle sheath. He sliced through the bonds around his nephew's legs, then wrapped his hand around the chain linking the handcuffs together.

" _Intermissum,"_ he invoked, watching as the metal links disintegrated between his fingers, leaving Jacob free. The younger Styne exhaled with relief and brought a hand up to feel the gunshot wound on his arm. It was a through-and-through. Clean. Easily fixed.

Finally, William looked up at Mortimer.

"We are on the brink of war, brother," he explained with quiet gravity. He removed his jacket and tore off his shirt sleeve, which he used to bandage Jacob's arm. "Caroline defied that demon, and now she's dead. He wants Sam alive. If we kill the boy, all of Hell turns against us." He ripped off his other sleeve and bandaged Jacob's leg.

"All of that over some… some… _boy?!_ " Mortimer exclaimed incredulously. Jacob stood up, squaring off against his uncle.

"Sam is not just _some boy_ ," he snarled, struggling to keep his temper in check. Mustering all his discipline, he forced himself to relax, loosening his balled fists. "He's the key to everything. Azazel's plan. Our success. Without Sam, we lose it all."

"You keep talking about this demon and his plan," Mortimer said. "So tell me: what is it? Why is this child so damned important?" He glanced from William to Jacob and back again. For the first time, both men paused, a sense of unease radiating out of them.

"We don't know," William admitted.

"You don't know." It wasn't a question.

"All we know," William explained, maintaining his patience, "is that Sam is special. Elizabeth read his palm — called him the Holy Grail. He is destined for something extraordinary. Now, Azazel knows us. He has known our family for centuries, how we operate, how we amass our wealth. And he assures us that Sam will spark a cataclysm the likes of which our world has not seen in several thousand years. Think of the fortune we could make from such an event!"

The more William spoke, the more curious Mortimer's expression became. Nothing appealed to the Stynes as much as power. He turned his attention back to Jacob. "And you know nothing more?"

Jacob shook his head. "No. But we've all seen his potential… his raw talent. Imagine what he'll achieve when he's fully trained and safe in our hands. We'll be unstoppable." Pride unconsciously coloured his tone, and when he saw the greed flare in Mortimer's eyes, he knew they'd won. He wouldn't forget Victor's death, but he was appeasible.

For the moment.

"If I find out you're lying to save your pet…"

"He's not," William interjected, his voice low and stern. "We can't waste anymore time discussing this; we need to think about damage control. This wedding…" He shook his head, disgruntled and heartbroken. "We should release the guests and regroup. It won't take long to retrieve the boy. Then we can worry about mending our reputation."

"No," Mortimer argued. "Our reputation takes priority."

"We split up, then," William insisted. "Divide and conquer. Azazel might not have killed Caroline, but he's the reason she's dead. I will not allow him to find Sam before we do. It's a dangerous game, but I will not lose everything to that demon."

"Very well," Mortimer eventually concurred. "You stay here and fetch your little runaway, if you must. I shall return to Europe with Dario and the others. I expect we'll have better luck exonerating ourselves on familiar soil. But one more thing: when you do find Sam…" His lip curled in a vicious snarl. "I should like a word with him."

The glint in his eye was all too familiar; it was the expression every Styne wore when they knew a reckoning was imminent. Jacob bit his tongue, outwardly indifferent, but inside, his blood boiled. Mortimer would not have the boy.

Sam was his and his alone.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	2. A Lost Opportunity

**SPN**

 **(Manning, Colorado… 17 months ago)**

"Sammy!" Dean hissed through his teeth, swearing when his brother's jacket slipped through his fingers as he tried to grab him. "Dammit!" He dashed forwards, crashing through the undergrowth, almost tripping on a concealed root as he rushed to keep up with his younger brother. Three sets of headlights shone in the darkness ahead, casting halos around the gnarled and crooked trees that stood between the two youngest Winchesters and the melee ahead. Sam reached the path and surged forwards, his long legs eating away at the ground, leaving Dean in his wake. The hunter skidded to a halt near the edge of the treeline, his gaze swiftly taking in the scene before him: two cars and his dad's Sierra Grande; five figures — four standing in a line while the leader approached a prone body on the ground, caught in the shadows of John Winchester's truck.

 _Dad!_

Dean raised his crossbow with both hands, his head tilting as he peered down the mounted scope. Sam veered away, running toward the man looming over John — and out of Dean's line of sight. But he couldn't worry about that; he had to focus on his target: a woman dressed in a stetson and leather jacket. When he squeezed the trigger, a high-powered bolt shot straight into her back — puncturing her heart and protruding all the way through her chest. She stared down at it in shock, then collapsed on the ground, but not for long. The arrowhead had only been dipped in dead man's blood — it wasn't going to kill her. Within seconds, Dean had reloaded, lined up his next shot and fired, taking out a second vampire that was stalking towards him. He went down just like the woman, which sent a thrill of satisfaction through the hunter… but only for a moment. A pained cry caught his attention, and his gaze turned to watch Sam go down after a brutal uppercut from the ringleader.

Dread filled Dean as the vampire bent down, hauling his brother up and, in that moment, his crossbow became useless. The damn creature would use Sam as a shield. Tossing the weapon to the ground, Dean raced onto the road, frantic to help his brother. A discarded machete glinted in the headlights of an idling car. Dean snatched it off the ground, but wasn't quick enough. As he brandished the blade, the vampire — Luther — wrenched his arm around Sam's throat, choking him.

"Don't!" he snapped, glaring at Dean as he tightened his grip on Sam. "I'll break his neck!" Dean stopped, the machete raised, his eyes glued to his brother's contorted face. A guttural choke escaped his lips as he fought to breathe; his hands grappled with the vampire's arm, fingers prying uselessly, trying to loosen the chokehold, but Luther didn't budge. "Put the blade down," he barked, adjusting his grip again as Sam squirmed, grimacing as his airway was completely shut off. Dean's gaze flicked between his brother and the vampire, the blade still tightly clenched in his hand, desperately calculating the odds of getting in a killing blow before Sam was hurt. A ragged gasp broke the silence as Sam tried in vain to suck in oxygen. The sound sent a cold shiver through Dean. He couldn't do it; not when his brother's life was at risk.

"All right!" he growled, holding up his left hand in surrender, keeping his eyes trained on Sam as he slowly bent down to the ground, placing the machete onto the road. Sam's gaze stayed locked on him, never once leaving his face. The blade clattered against the tarmac, breaking the heavy silence. Dean's heart thrummed in his chest and, for the first time in a long time, he found himself in a stalemate. He could still see John's unconscious form on the ground behind the vampire and he was out of options. He couldn't make a move fast enough — one twist of the vampire's arm and Sam was dead.

"You people… why can't you just leave us alone?" Luther snarled, glaring at the young hunter before him whilst maintaining an iron grip on his writhing captive. The vampire frowned; the boy's heart should've been beating a mile a minute, but, instead, it was almost… calm?

Dean watched Sam's expression morph: he stopped struggling and his brows furrowed in concentration. His eyes let go of their hold on Dean's, sliding down to his right. His frown intensified, a sliver of blood beginning to trickle from his nose. Dean's heart pounded.

What was he trying to do?

For a moment, nothing happened: the three of them stood silent in a vacuum. Timeless. Endless. Motionless.

Metal clanged against stone as the machete suddenly vibrated. Dean and Luther's eyes snapped down to watch it lift, seemingly of its own volition, into the air and plunge towards the vampire, slamming itself straight into his forehead before he could even react.

Sam staggered away as the vampire crumbled to the ground. Dean lurched forward, grabbing Sam with both hands, one on his arm to feel the solidity of his presence, to reassure himself that he was fine; the other tilting his chin back to inspect his bloody nose.

Sam, however, was quick to shrug him off and aimed a hard glare at the two remaining vampires, both of whom were staring at them in horrified disbelief. One — Luther's mate — made to attack, but the other pulled her back and dragged her into the nearest car. The tires screeched against the road as they roared away, not waiting to see what the psychic might do to them.

"Damn it, Sammy…" Dean grumbled.

"I'm fine!" Sam countered. "It was easier than last time." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket (which he carried specifically for this reason) and pressed it against his nose.

Dean scowled, bending down to pull the machete from Luther's head before aiming a swift blow at the vampire's neck, decapitating him with one hit. Wiping the blade on the corpse, he stood up straight and turned his glare at his brother.

"You could've missed!"

"I didn't," Sam objected, his tone nonchalant, but his eyes full of challenge. The familiar bubble of frustration began to well within him and he fought to remind himself that Dean's anger was just a front. Beneath it, he knew there was underlying fear mixed with worry to create a toxic whirlpool of doubt. Sam didn't need to be psychic to know how his brother felt; he'd always known. He loved his brother: he'd die for him, but sometimes… he just wished Dean would stop acting like he was going to break.

"You could've! Hell, Sam, you've only just started pickin' crap up without droppin' it, let alone throwin' it through the air _right next to your own head!_ " Dean's eyes flickered over to John who limped up behind Sam, blood trickling from a few shallow cuts on his face. The elder hunter rested a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving him a quick once-over before his hand fell away.

But Sam barely noticed his father, too frustrated with his brother. "Yeah, well, unless you've got some magic gun hidden somewhere that I don't know about, I didn't have much of a choice, Dean!" He stopped short, regretting his words when he saw the pang of guilt flash across Dean's face. He always thought he had to be the one to protect Sam. In that moment, when he was forced to relinquish the machete, he hadn't known what he was going to do, or how he would save his brother. And that had scared Dean more than anything.

"All right, that's enough," John interjected, standing between his boys. He turned his attention back to Sam, searching his youngest's face for a sign that anything untoward was about to happen.

"Dad, I said I'm fine," Sam huffed, nevertheless averting his eyes. It wasn't their fault; his abilities had grown over the past nine months and, while he'd put in hundreds of hours of training — both with Pamela Barnes and Missouri Moseley — he was still far from mastering any aspects of his powers. Hell, he was still a novice at the telekinesis; the ability had only surfaced recently compared to his other skills. Sam knew their misgivings were justified. (In all honesty, he was actually surprised when the machete hit his target — not that he would ever admit it.) Wielding his abilities could be dangerous; they often came with a price. Nosebleeds, migraines and, on occasion, he would black out completely. But none of that made his family's overbearing concern any less stifling. They didn't understand… He just wanted to prove himself… He wasn't… He wasn't helpless anymore.

John clenched his jaw in disapproval, but if Sam wasn't in the mood to listen to Dean, he certainly wouldn't listen to his old man. They could finish this conversation later, when the tension wasn't so palpable.

"We need to hurry," he told the boys, abruptly changing the topic. Dean's shoulders sagged in frustration, a dark scowl etched into his brow but he knew better than to press his luck. John focused on him first. "We need to clean this place up. Make sure they're all dead and get the crossbow back." Then he turned to Sam. "Go dump their car. Keep your phone on — we'll pick you up when we're done here."

"Yes, sir," the brothers replied in unison, Sam a little more enthusiastically than normal. He could use the breathing space. It was a mild summer night, but as he climbed into the car — which smelled of beer, blood, and rot — Sam felt a nagging sense of doubt… not in himself, but in the hunt. Like they had overlooked something… missed something important.

But the answers weren't there, so he resigned himself to rolling down the driver's side window and pulled the car away from their kill site. It wouldn't take long for them to cover their tracks, leaving no trace of the vampires behind, and hopefully that would be the end of it.

Within the hour, Sam found himself waiting on the edge of a minor road, kicking at the loose gravel beneath his feet. He looked up at the familiar roar of the Impala growling in the distance, and watched two sets of headlights making their way towards him. John's truck rumbled to a halt first, Dean pulling the Impala up behind him. Sam walked over to the driver's side of the truck and waited for John to roll the window down.

"You good?" his father asked and Sam nodded. "All right. Look, I've got a hunter I need to make contact with, but that won't take all of us. I've told Dean to drive you both back to Bobby's."

"This got anything to do with that letter from we found in Elkins' dropbox?" Sam asked, peering over at the Impala. He could see Dean through the windshield, drumming his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel, clearly back in high spirits.

"Yeah," John replied. "But as I said — it's just an errand run. Means I can catch up with him too and see if there's any news comin' through his neck of the woods. You two go rest up — takin' out your first vamp nest ain't easy." A small half smile briefly graced his lips and Sam knew, for the moment, that he was happy with their progress. This hunt hadn't been connected to the demon — Azazel — but they'd still done some good and that was what mattered.

"See you in a couple of days," Sam muttered. He returned his father's feeble smile, then made for the Impala, his hands buried in his jeans pockets. John watched him go in the rear view mirror. Then, his eyes slid to the sealed envelope on his passenger seat. The name _Gordon Walker_ was scrawled across the front. Of all the hunters Daniel could have written to, it _had_ to be Gordon. Heaving a sigh, John pulled away, leaving his boys behind.

 **SPN**

 **(Dodge City, Kansas)**

Bad Habit was a dismal bar squatting on the edge of Dodge City near US-50. It was a long, stocky building painted a dull cream that had begun to turn grey with age. Plumes of smoke drifted through the poorly lit interior, swirling around the patrons and mixing with the familiar stench of stale beer and body odour. Booths lined the walls and several round tables filled the dining space, along with the bar which dominated the centre of the room.

When John entered, none of the locals paid him any attention save for the grim-faced barman who acknowledged the hunter's entrance with a terse nod. Scanning the room, John's gaze landed on a loner seated at one of the round tables near the back. Gordon Walker met his eye and grinned, but there was no joy in his expression. It was a predator's look: full of concealed challenge and dominance. He nursed a glass, the end of his cigarette glowing when he took a deep drag of it, adding to the fug that clouded the dark room. Without preamble, John ordered a whiskey from the bar and made his way over to Gordon's table, reluctant to have his back to the door.

"Gordon."

"John. Been a while." Gordon nodded, tipping his head to the other hunter. His gaze wandered past John. "Still no boys tagging along with you?"

"They're busy," John answered, his tone civil but curt.

Gordon sighed almost dramatically, his lips curving upwards. "Some would say you work them too hard, John. One day you should really introduce us. I've heard Dean has a real flare for the job."

Inwardly, John felt his temper rise, but he kept his expression carefully schooled. He knew of Gordon's reputation — knew of it and disapproved of it — and he had no intention of letting his boys anywhere near the hunter. Without taking the bait, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out the battered envelope, sliding it across the table towards Gordon. The vampire hunter picked it up, his brow crinkling. He balanced his cigarette between his lips, tearing open the envelope and reading the letter silently. John watched him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction, but, like John, Gordon was a master at checking his emotions. His face betrayed only a brief flicker of surprise, and he quickly suppressed it. When he finished the letter, Gordon folded it back up and placed it inside his own jacket while returning his gaze to John, almost daring him to ask about the contents of Elkins' letter.

He took another drag of his cigarette before speaking. "Did you read it?"

"It wasn't addressed to me," John replied, his curiosity piqued. Why would Gordon think he had?

Stubbing his cigarette out in a grimy ashtray, Gordon tapped his jacket, over the letter, and exhaled a final puff of smoke. "This letter is Danny's legacy. He meant for you to have it." John blinked in surprise while Gordon's mouth curled in a sneer. "You were always his _favorite_ protégé… even after your falling out."

John's jaw clenched, his expression livid. He didn't like having his own business thrown back in his face, and he would be damned if he asked for more information, regardless of any 'legacy.' He wouldn't give Gordon the satisfaction. Finishing his whiskey in one mouthful, he slammed the glass back on the table.

"We're done here," he growled, rising out of his seat. Gordon simply leaned back, amused.

"Word travels fast, John," he goaded, clearly enjoying himself. "I don't think I ever saw Danny quite as angry as when he learned of your new _best friend_." His grimaced like saying the words left a bad taste in his mouth, and John was hit by a sudden realization. "Seriously," Gordon spat. "What kind of hunter teams up with a vampire?"

Benny…

Gordon was going to keep the contents of the letter a damn secret because they'd worked with the southern vampire to protect Sam from the Stynes.

John stared dispassionately down at Gordon for a moment, refusing to answer. He didn't need to justify himself to anyone, let alone someone like Gordon. Without a word, he turned away and stalked toward the exit.

"I suppose it makes sense!" Gordon called after him. "I mean, your son's a freak too, right?"

John stopped.

"People are saying he's too much into that psychic crap. Moving things… reading minds…" Gordon tutted, shaking his head, his smile vicious but his eyes hard. "What's next, John? Possessing people? Controlling them? That's not a safe sandbox for your kid to play in."

John's fists clenched.

"Rumor has it that he wasn't exactly… born with his sideshow talents. There's all sorts of _talk_ about him," Gordon continued to antagonize.

"I don't put a whole lotta faith in gossip," John growled, a warning in his tone.

But Gordon wasn't fazed. "If it's true, then 'freak' isn't really the proper word for him. _Monster_ would be more fitting."

John's control snapped and he spun around, closing the distance between them before Gordon could even blink. He hauled the younger hunter from his seat and smacked him up against the side of a nearby booth. His hand wrapped around Gordon's throat, and he leaned in close.

"Listen carefully," he snarled, keeping his livid eyes trained on Gordon's. " _Never_ threaten me or my boys, Walker, 'cause I can guarantee you won't be the one who makes it out. Am I clear?"

Gordon scowled at him, but his attempts to break free were futile, much to his fury. John squeezed tighter, making him choke.

"I said: am I clear?"

"Yes," Gordon wheezed. John gave him a moment to appreciate his precarious position before letting him go. As Gordon gasped for breath, he turned and walked away, blatantly ignoring the stunned onlookers.

He hastened outside to his truck, climbed in the driver's seat, and silently fumed, gripping the steering wheel with both hands to channel his fury.

John would never forgive the Stynes for what they'd done to his youngest son. The bastards had messed with Sammy's head on a level the hunter could barely comprehend. They'd made him watch unspeakable things, branded him and actually convinced him that he was a part of their twisted, evil family. Jacob's "little brother." It was sickening, and it scared John as much as the yellow-eyed demon. Sam had been traumatized. It took him months to recover — if John was honest with himself, he knew his youngest was still recovering. As was Dean: the brothers were closer than ever, but he'd wished that wasn't the result of the hell they'd all been through. Sometimes John wondered if Sam's eagerness to train with his newfound skills was, in fact, a front to hide his lingering fear and grief. After all, he still had nightmares.

There was one silver lining: the Stynes were dead. Jacob was dead — they owed Benny Lafitte for that. The vampire had delivered the killing blow, and John would be in his debt for the rest of his life. He did not regret a moment of their allegiance, no matter how much it tarnished his reputation.

Of course, he didn't give a damn about Gordon — some hunters weren't worth their salt. But Daniel had been John's mentor. True, they had had their share of disagreements, but so what? They'd trusted each other. That's what mattered. And to lose that trust because of Benny… Hell, that hurt.

And if he couldn't trust Daniel, then who could he trust? Caleb? Bobby?

They needed to be more careful — especially with Sam. It wasn't safe for them to attract so much attention to themselves. Hunters were starting to notice. And worse, that damned demon was still out there, biding his time, no doubt waiting for an opportunity to grab John's son. The thought always turned his blood to ice. It was the only reason John could stomach Sam's obsessive training: he was so much better at protecting himself. But what if, in the process, Sam made more enemies than he could afford?

John sighed, shoving the thoughts to one side as he turned the ignition and pulled the truck out of its parking spot. He had to kill that demon. He had to kill it now.

They were running out of time.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	3. Christmas

**There is some violence towards the end of this chapter - please be warned!**

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana… 1 month ago)**

Daisy Parson stared critically at her reflection in the hallway mirror of her Acadian home. For sure, there was nothing wrong with her appearance. She had a petite figure with chestnut hair that fell in waves past her shoulders. Her clothes were also impeccable: she wore a smart black skirt with a sleek emerald blouse, stilettos, and a string of pearls around her neck. She'd never been fond of green before — blue was more her color — but lately she tried to avoid wearing blue.

No, it wasn't her appearance that upset her. It was the emptiness in her dark brown eyes. The vacancy. How did it come to this? She used to be so bright, sophisticated, and successful. Now she was surviving on autopilot. Her dreams of prosperity were shattered with Jacob's death, and she could not imagine life without him. But it wasn't just the heartbreak and disappointment. There was also the fear, shock and betrayal… the unspeakable torments that were burrowed deep, clinging ruthlessly to her broken spirit.

Everything was different now, and it would never be the same again.

For appearance's sake, she continued to work alongside Sheriff Graham Treadwell at the Shreveport police department, but underneath it all, she felt nothing. She _was_ nothing: just a shell of her former self. No one asked questions; no one cared to know what happened to her. When it came to the Stynes and their friends, people were wise enough to mind their own business.

 _How did I let this happen?_

The reality of her bleak existence reflected back at Daisy through the mirror. With no family and few friends, she had nowhere else to go.

Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of her doorbell. Suppressing a groan, she shuffled away from the mirror and focused on adopting a pleasant expression. By the time she reached the entryway, she had straightened her posture and relaxed her shoulders. With a smile, she opened the door.

"Mrs. Fontaine!" she exclaimed when she recognized the tall brunette on her covered porch. "What a lovely surprise!" Paige Fontaine was a prominent member of Shreveport society — her husband had been the Styne family's lawyer. Presently, she wore a navy peacoat and diamond teardrop earrings, which complemented her bobbed haircut. She was clutching a purse in one hand while shaking water off her umbrella with the other. Daisy held the door open for her. "Please, come in! I didn't realize it was raining again."

"Thank you, my dear," Paige replied, handing her the umbrella as she entered. While Daisy dropped it in the metal stand, Paige removed her peacoat, revealing a warm winter dress underneath. "I'm sorry to drop by unannounced, especially on such a gloomy day, but I have exciting news, and since I was in the area…"

"You are always welcome," Daisy assured her, guiding her into the pristine living room. "Can I pour you some tea?"

"Oh, no," Paige replied. "Please don't trouble yourself." They settled side by side on the sofa, where they took a moment to size each other up.

Over the past few years, Paige Fontaine was the only woman who had bothered to check in on Daisy. She was the only woman who understood what happened the night of the Styne wedding, and while she had been protected, at least she had been there. She saw what Daisy went through, and Daisy didn't have to explain a thing. It was nice to have a friendly face around, even if it wasn't a trustworthy face. Daisy liked Paige, but she knew better than to confide in her — the Fontaines were too close to the Stynes.

"So?" she asked, keeping her voice light and amicable. "Any plans for Christmas?"

"Forget Christmas!" Paige opened her purse and eagerly fished out a pristine white envelope. She smiled, offering it to Daisy. "Have you heard about Shreveport's newest most-eligible bachelor?"

Daisy frowned, taking the envelope hesitantly. It was thick, high-quality, embossed paper with her name scrolled across the front in beautiful calligraphy. "You mean… Dario Polidori?" When she opened the envelope, she discovered an elegant invitation to a New Year's Eve party.

"He arrived a few weeks ago from Europe," Paige explained cheerfully. "And he's hosting the event of the season! He's an ambitious young man, Daisy, and wants to meet the city's best and brightest."

Daisy glanced up at her, surprised and confused. "That sounds awfully prestigious." Why would he invite her? She was a nobody.

"It is," Paige agreed. "Why, we haven't had a soirée like it since…" she trailed off, realizing her mistake as Daisy stiffened. It took all her discipline to control her breathing as memories of that night threatened to surface. Paige quickly feigned ignorance. "Well, I certainly can't remember. Anyway, this New Year's Eve party will be good for you. A fresh start. And if I'm not mistaken, Mr. Polidori is quite handsome — only five years older than you."

Daisy dropped her gaze, staring down at the invitation and the delicate curving of her name on the paper. "I don't know…"

 _There's no one I want but him._

The thought flitted through her mind before she could stop it, and her heart ached heavily in her chest. Even though he failed to save her at the wedding, Jacob remained her only desire. Over the past two years, she concocted a thousand different reasons for why he neglected her that night. When she'd learned of his death… it had broken her all over again.

There would never be a better man than Jacob Styne.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do…" she began, but Paige huffed, interrupting her.

"That's quite enough, Daisy! It's been over two years, and you can't keep living this way. You're not Miss Havisham. Now, I'm going to buy you a new dress, and on the morning of the 31st, I'll pick you up for a spa day. You'll look beautiful, and Mr. Polidori won't know what's hit him. Am I clear?"

Daisy sighed, at a loss. She should have known there was no point in arguing. She gave a firm nod and smiled politely. "Yes ma'am. You're absolutely right."

"Of course I am," Paige smiled, gathering her things. "That's settled then. You enjoy your Christmas and I'll see you on the 31st."

Daisy trailed behind her to the front door, holding up her peacoat to help her slide her arms in. The umbrella snapped up against the rain as Paige ventured back out into the storm. Daisy watched dismally from the porch, then turned and quietly closed the door, leaning back against it.

Enjoy Christmas… that'd be a first. She had no one to celebrate with, and nothing _to_ celebrate. It was just another day.

But maybe…

Looking back at the invitation on her coffee table, Daisy had a feeling that maybe things were about to change. She just couldn't tell if they would be for the better.

 **SPN**

 **(Ypsilanti, Michigan… December 24, 2007)**

This hunt was officially the most frustrating job they'd been on in a long time. In fact, Sam couldn't remember when he was last so irritable. Everything about the case irked him: the lack of leads; their inability to identify the monster through the lore — for three days! — and, most of all, his complete psychic ineptitude.

Sam hadn't realized how much he relied on his abilities until they proved absolutely useless. And he couldn't bring himself to tell his brother — not all of it, anyway. Dean knew that he failed to 'read' any of the crime scenes they'd visited, which was strangely disorienting. Sam had been able to sense and evaluate the energy surrounding him ever since Caroline Styne had unlocked his abilities. Over the years, it became second nature, helping them on numerous jobs, and to have it suddenly switched off was akin to losing his sight.

But since it only happened at the crime scenes, Dean could shrug it off. There wasn't something wrong with Sam — as soon as they returned to the Impala, he was back to normal. The problem, therefore, had to be something else, something left behind by the monster. The meadowsweet in the Christmas wreaths, more than likely. Sam had convinced himself that it was nothing to worry about. He was still capable of hunting.

What Dean didn't realize — and what Sam couldn't tell him — was how blind he felt: how exposed it made him. And now, as they stood on the porch of the Carrigan house, preparing to kill a pagan god, he felt nervous and flustered for the first time in well over a year.

"Got it," Dean whispered when he picked the lock. The door opened with a squeal and the boys made their way into a festive lounge, _Oh Come All Ye Faithful_ still playing softly through the outside speakers. Sam stopped short, grimacing when a pungent stench smacked him in the face. It was overwhelmingly nauseating, and he choked back a disgusted gasp.

"Dude, you okay?" Dean whispered, glancing over his shoulder with a frown.

"Yeah," Sam replied, covering his nose. "It's just… Can't you smell that?"

Dean shook his head and shrugged. "Too much potpourri? C'mon, man, it's not that bad. Suck it up!" He reached out for one of their evergreen stakes, which Sam relinquished, and they continued through the house. It took some effort… The stench was powerful, making Sam's eyes water. He looked about, trying to see where it was coming from, but nothing obvious stood out.

How could Dean ignore it?

A thought suddenly occurred to him: Dean was unfazed by the smell, and his abilities were on the fritz: there was little chance that it was a coincidence. Mentally, Sam kicked himself for not realizing it earlier.

He glanced at a shelf littered with gaudy Santa ornaments and unlit Christmas candles. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to concentrate on using his telekinesis, but the more he tried to focus, the stronger the stench became. It was debilitating, and none of the ornaments moved.

Sam's blood ran cold.

Whatever that smell was, it was blocking him completely. He tried to expand his awareness, imagining a bubble growing around him, but it was just… gone. The more he tried, the more the smell invaded his senses until he could taste it on his tongue. His head was starting to throb. Great. Just great. He wasn't just out of juice: he was physically compromised.

But, they couldn't leave now. They had a job to finish.

 _Get a grip,_ he grumbled to himself. It was just a headache — nothing he hadn't dealt with before. He could do this. And it might be good for him to hunt without his abilities. After all, he shouldn't be taking them for granted.

"See?" Dean whispered, breaking Sam from his reverie as he reached the sofa. "Plastic!" He poked at the plastic cover, as if that somehow made the Carrigans more evil. Sam rolled his eyes, but he was grateful for any distraction.

They split up, Dean walking farther into the lounge while Sam crept towards the kitchen. Tightening his grip on the stake, he strained his ears, listening for any sign of life. His brow crinkled at the sight of the kitchen table: cookies, pies, and a gingerbread house, all on Christmas trays: not what he was expecting from a pagan god. It looked… normal. If not for the stench, Sam would've thought it was the wrong house. Everything about this hunt was bizarre — which didn't make him feel any more at ease.

His gaze swung over to a door beside the fridge, where something glinted through the shadows. Switching on his flashlight, he peered down at the handle, surprised when he found a second lock reinforcing the standard lock. Except… it wasn't bolted.

"Hey, Dean!" he called, louder than he meant to, while testing the handle. Sure enough, it turned, which made no sense. If the Carrigans were trying to hide something, why would they keep the door unlocked?

When Dean reached the kitchen, Sam glanced back at him. He nodded, and Sam opened the door, revealing a staircase that led down into the dusty basement. Together, they made their descent, boots thumping on the wood, using their flashlights for direction. Sam stubbornly tried to push out with his mind again, but still nothing happened. That stench was permeating the whole house, but in the basement it was tainted along with something else, which Dean also noticed: the smell of rot, blood and death.

At the foot of the stairs, they split up again, flashlights exploring the grotesque room. Bones littered the floor and blood was everywhere: on the banister, the floor, the walls. It was a complete contrast to the tidiness above.

This was a slaughter house.

While Dean bent down to inspect a bag with what looked like a hip bone sticking from the top, Sam peered at an electric saw, revolted by the gory workspace. He kept moving, his grip tight on the evergreen stake. A red sack hung on a hook near the far wall, blood dripping to the floor. Sam grimaced. He didn't want to, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from reaching out with curious fingers.

The sack exploded in a frenzy of movement and noise. Sam fell back, heart pounding. A chill ran down his spine and he turned, eyes wide when he found Madge Carrigan standing right behind him. He raised the stake, but she caught him by the throat, her grip inhumanely strong. She swung him around, slamming him against the wall, and the stake clattered to the ground.

"SAM!" Dean roared. When he saw Madge holding his brother, he raised his own stake, but he wasn't fast enough. Edward Carrigan appeared out of nowhere, disarming him with a single blow to the arm. Before Dean could recover, the man grabbed him by the back of the neck and sent him careening headfirst into a pillar. Dean crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Sam watched helplessly, clawing at Madge's hand in a desperate struggle to breathe. He locked eyes with her as she gazed up at him, her husband looming behind her.

"Gosh," she sighed, smiling almost sympathetically. "I wish you boys hadn't come down here." She pulled him forward, then slammed his head back against the wall. Stars exploded and everything went black.

 **SPN**

The fight back to consciousness was slow and painful with his head throbbing from both the attack and the overwhelming stench. To make things worse, he could hear a sickeningly sweet instrumental rendition of _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ playing from somewhere else in the house. It was both ironic and eerie.

Sam groaned, hesitant to open his eyes, and sure enough, the action made his vision swim. For a moment, he thought he might fall, but when he tried to catch his balance, a fierce discomfort raced up both of his arms which were hampered by something heavy and coarse.

Blinking hard, he shook the fuzziness from his eyes and glanced down to find coils of rope fastening his arms at both the crook of his elbows and the top of his wrists to the outer edge of the armrests of a dining chair. They were bent at an awkward, uncomfortable angle with the inside of his wrists facing away from the chair, the backs of his hands pressing against the wooden frame. That was… different. He yanked reflexively, wincing when the rope bit into his skin. With the way he was tied, he didn't have the range of motion to reach the knots, and, despite his struggles, the ropes refused to loosen.

He was stuck, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Breathing heavily, Sam's gaze roved around the Carrigan kitchen. His jaw clenched at the sight of the table — the baked goods had all been replaced by an array of empty bowls, candles, herbs and other tools that shouldn't be anywhere near a kitchen. Were those pliers?

Sam tried twisting around and, from the corner of his eye, caught a partial glimpse of his brother sitting limply behind him.

"Dean?" he called out, relief flooding through him when he heard the chair creak, a quiet groan emanating from his brother. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I think so," Dean grumbled, lifting his head and flinching when the light pierced his eyes.

"So I guess we're dealing with Mr. and Mrs. God," Sam murmured dryly. "Nice to know."

"Yeah," Dean groaned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, but when Madge and Edward appeared in the doorway, he straightened up and clenched his fists.

"Oh," Madge exclaimed, "and here we thought you two lazybones were going to sleep straight through all the fun stuff!" Her cheerful tone brought bile up in Sam's throat. The Carrigans weren't just monsters: they were sadistic, evil bastards. They lured people in with their friendly demeanors and ripped them apart during one of the most beloved seasons of the year. And they did it with those revolting syrupy smiles. Sam glared up at them in contempt.

Dean's expression twisted into one of barely suppressed rage, but he resorted to his typical sarcasm as he tried to rein in his anger. "And miss all this? Nah, we're partiers!"

"Isn't he a kick in the pants, honey?" Edward teased while circling the brothers with a malicious glint in his eyes. "You're hunters is what you are. Hunters…" He paused, his gaze lingering on Sam. "And a psychic." Sam tensed, heart pounding. How did they…? Edward smirked. "We've got a nose for your kind, son — we've been smelling you all day."

"How's your head, dear?" Madge asked with feigned concern, leaning over him to stroke his cheek.

Sam recoiled. "Get away from me!"

"Sam!?" Dean couldn't hide the alarm from his voice. He tried turning to see behind him, but his own restraints hindered him.

With a sympathetic sigh, Madge brought her hand up to Sam's forehead, checking his temperature. "As I thought: you're running a little warm. We had to spray the house with a special blend of fragrances to stifle your abilities — a necessary precaution, you understand — but I do regret any discomfort you must be suffering."

Well, that explained a few things. Sam groaned, clenching his eyes shut and wishing more than ever he could breathe some fresh air.

"Hunters and a psychic," Edward mused when Madge finally withdrew from her captive. "Now that's an unusual combination."

"Oh, I'll say!" she agreed, shuffling around the room. "Certainly not one we've seen before."

"Yeah, well, we're full of surprises," Dean replied with mounting rage. "And it turns out you're pagan gods, so why don't we just call it even and go our separate ways?" He offered Edward a tight, angry smile.

Edward scoffed, staring down at Dean with a challenge in his eyes. "What so you can bring back more hunters and kill us? I don't think so."

"Maybe you should've thought about that before you went snacking on humans," Sam snapped, much to Edward's exasperation.

"Oh, now, don't get all wet," he chided while Madge tied a festive apron around her plump waist.

"Oh, why, we used to take over a hundred tributes a year, and that's a fact," she professed as she retrieved a cloth napkin from the sideboard. She flapped it open and laid it across Dean's lap, making him flinch in revulsion. She looked him in the eye. "Now what do we take? Two? Three?"

"Frank Hardy over here makes four," Edward said with a pointed glance at Dean.

Sam frowned. What about him?

Madge offered Dean a condescending smile. "Now that's not so bad, is it?"

Dean scoffed. "Well, when you say it like that, I guess you guys are the Cunninghams."

"You, mister, had better start showing us some respect," Edward chastised with fatherly disapproval. Sam recognized the tone and instinct took over.

"Or what?" he mocked. "You'll eat us?"

Dean smirked. For once, he could appreciate Sam's witty retorts. However, it was short-lived. Madge's reply left him in shock.

"Oh no, not you dear. Just your big brother."

Dean's heart skipped a beat and he stared at the woman in disbelief. "Wait, so you're gonna eat me and what? Let him go?" She chuckled, glancing at her husband in amusement. Dean followed her gaze, bristling at the man's nonchalance. He stood towering over them with his pipe between his teeth.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he asked. "Sadly, we can't afford to have psychics running around. That's risky business." He paused, savoring his power over them. Dean's gut wrenched, and Sam held his breath in trepidation. Edward glanced from one to the other, settling his gaze on Sam. "Truth is, we don't have an appetite for your kind. Psychics, they just… they leave an aftertaste. But don't worry!" He leaned down to ruffle Sam's hair. "Psychics are valuable. We'll still get plenty of use outta you!"

Sam jerked, twisting his head away, while Dean snarled, "Don't touch him!"

"Oh, I don't think you're in any position to be giving orders, son," Edward replied.

Sam began to fidget, squirming in his seat, tugging on his restraints. "What do you mean I'm valuable?" Dean understood his fear — too many monsters had it out for him.

Edward's attention, however, turned to his wife. "Ready, dear?"

"Just about," she assured him, holding two ornate bowls stacked in one hand, and a crescent-shaped garland of meadowsweet in the other. "Shall we conduct the ritual and then drain the boy, or both at once?"

Edward smirked. "Both at once! No sense wasting time." Madge grinned gleefully while handing him the bowls.

They were going to die… Sam pictured all the blood in the Carrigans' basement and renewed his efforts to squirm free, but with no luck. He watched apprehensively as Edward crouched down and positioned the bowls on either side of his chair, directly beneath his arms.

Meanwhile, Madge hooked the garland of meadowsweet around Dean's neck. "There!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in pure delight. "Doesn't he just look _darling_?"

Edward straightened back up and sauntered around to inspect the older brother. He licked his lips. "Good enough to eat."

Dean glowered up at him. "Look, if you're gonna eat me, the least you can do is answer the question. Why are psychics valuable?"

Edward rolled his eyes, but Madge was cheerful enough to humor him. "Two millennia we've been hunted — forced to keep a low profile…" she explained while sifting through a selection of tools on the table. "We got jobs, a mortgage! We… what was that word, dear?"

Edward popped a chestnut into his mouth. "We assimilated."

"We assimilated," she repeated, nodding vigorously. "Why, we even play Bridge on Tuesdays and Fridays. But now…" She sighed wistfully, picking up a knife with a curved blade. "Thanks to you boys, we have to start all over again."

"Back to square one," Edward pitched in, chewing morosely on the nut. "We have to assume you told others about us, which means we can't stay here. So once you're out of the way, we'll have to pack up and move. Build our lives somewhere else. But change doesn't come cheap. We'll need some way to fund our transition, and Sam here — it is Sam, isn't it? Sam's a treasure trove. You boys have any idea how much we can charge for psychic blood? Not to mention the brain and the eyeballs."

Sam shrank in his seat, heart pounding, while Dean muttered a curse under his breath.

At that moment, Madge sidled in front of Dean and pressed the knife against his forearm. "This might pinch a bit, dear," she warned him as she sliced the blade through his flesh.

"BITCH!" he barked, more in anger than pain, as blood trickled down into a bowl that Madge held out for it.

"Oh my goodness me!" she chided. "Someone owes a nickel to the swear jar!" She wagged the knife in front of him like a long-suffering disciplinarian. "Do y'know what I say when I feel like swearing? Fudge."

Dean stared up at her incredulously. "I'll try and remember that."

"Dean?" Sam frantically peered over his shoulder, but when he couldn't see anything, he closed his eyes and silently willed the ropes to unravel. Once again, the stench filled his nose, making him gag. His eyes watered and the room seemed to spin. "God…" The word slipped out before he could stop it.

"Yes, dear?" Madge shuffled over to him, wiping the blade on a napkin. She took one look at his face and feigned sympathy. "Oh, you poor thing. Those fumes are really getting to you, aren't they? If we don't hurry, you might suffocate before we can drain you, and that won't do at all."

"Don't!" Sam objected, writhing in his seat as she pressed the tip of the knife to the soft underside of his exposed wrist. He tried to move his arm, but his restraints were unyielding. "DON'T!"

"The more you struggle, the more it'll hurt," she told him, pressing the blade in and dragging it back, cutting straight into the vein.

Sam howled in pain, his vision swimming in and out.

"SAMMY!" Dean roared, thrashing against his own restraints. "Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!"

"Hear how they talk to us? The _gods_?" Edward circled back around the table, grabbing a pair of pliers as he approached Dean. "Back in the day, we were worshipped by millions!"

"Times have changed!" Dean spat, only half glaring at him — he was too distracted by the pained moan coming from his little brother.

"And the other one!" Madge chirped brightly, pressing the blade into Sam's right wrist. He cried out again as blood splattered into the wooden bowls below. The pain was excruciating, and as Madge warned him, the more he moved, the worse it felt. Determined not to let them have their satisfaction, Sam lashed out with his foot, aiming blindly for one of the bowls. They could bleed him dry, but that didn't mean he would let them get what they wanted.

"Oh, dear, don't you even think about it!" Madge scolded him, quickly shuffling to one of the kitchen drawers. She rummaged through it and grabbed something that Sam couldn't see.

Meanwhile, Dean was still trying to look over his shoulder when he felt Edward grab his left index finger. His head snapped back around and his face paled when he saw the pliers. "No!"

Edward grinned, latching the pliers onto the nail.

He pulled.

Dean's scream sent waves of panic through Sam's body and he momentarily forgot his own predicament, which gave Madge the opportunity to grab his ankle in a vice-like grip. He bucked in surprise, kicking with his other foot, but she barely noticed. It only took her a few seconds to apply a long strip of duct tape to his ankle and then wind it around the chair leg. Once it was secure, she moved over to his other side.

"No!" He fought as she repeated the process, but his strength was no match for hers.

"There we go," she huffed in triumph, climbing stiffly to her feet. Sam groaned, squirming helplessly, much to her satisfaction. She watched his blood trickling down into the bowls, unobstructed. "This won't take long. Hush…" She pressed her finger to Sam's lips. "You can't stop it, dear. Just sit tight and think pleasant thoughts. It'll be over soon."

He jerked his head away and glowered at her — but she was right, and there was nothing he could do about it. The thought made him nauseous.

"And how are we doing over here?" Madge asked as she joined her husband in front of Dean.

"Oh, sweet Peter on a popsicle stick!" Edward playfully bopped himself on the head. "I forgot the tooth!" He laughed, trading the pliers for a pair of vice-grips. Dean watched in alarm while yanking and pulling on his wrists. Incredibly, he felt the rope begin to loosen — not that it would do him much good with Edward towering over him.

"Open wide… and say 'ahh'!" The bastard grabbed Dean roughly by the chin, fingers squeezing his jaw to force open his mouth. He shoved in the grips and latched onto a back molar. Dean winced as they clamped down.

He screwed his eyes shut.

A low chime resonated through the house and Dean's eyes snapped back open. He stared up at Madge and Edward, who glanced uncertainly at each other.

"You gonna get that?" Dean mumbled around the grips in his mouth, his heart hammering. This was the only chance they would get or they were both dead. "You should get that."

The couple stalled, still undecided, when the doorbell rang a second time.

 _Go._

Madge sighed and Edward huffed, pulling the vice-grips out of Dean's mouth.

"Come on," he grumbled, dropping the tool on the table. Madge put down her knife, and the pair stalked out, closing the door behind them.

"Sammy?" Dean called out anxiously, pulling on the loose rope. His brother whimpered, a quiet sound that turned Dean's blood to ice. "Hang on, kiddo… I'll get you out." He gave his bloody arm a final yank and pulled it free. He reached across the table and grabbed the discarded knife. Then, he sawed through the bindings on his other wrist.

He leapt to his feet and swung around… only to stop short at the sight in front of him.

Sam was barely conscious, blood dribbling from his open wrists. His head was listing to the side, and his eyes were unfocused.

"Hang on, Sammy," Dean whispered, forcing himself to move. He quickly severed each of Sam's restraints and grabbed his arms, bending them upward as gently as he could. "Hold these up for me, okay, Sam?" He rushed to the sideboard and grabbed a handful of cloth napkins while keeping an ear out for the Carrigans. They could be back any second. He could hear their voices wafting through the door… but they were still faint.

Dumping the pile of napkins on Sam's lap, Dean grabbed the first two and wrapped them tightly around his left wrist. Sam cried out, making Dean flinch. "Shhh… It's okay… It's gonna be okay…" He reached for the roll of duct tape and pulled off a long strip to fasten the napkin to Sam's arm. The cut was deep, but not long. "Look, you're barely bleeding!" He grabbed the remaining napkins and did the same to his right wrist.

"Sammy? Hey…" Dean crouched down in front of his brother, inspecting his face. He was dazed, but thankfully still responsive. "Can you stand? We gotta get you outta here."

"What… t'hunt?" Sam slurred, blinking heavily. Dean could've rolled his eyes.

"Screw the hunt! Let's go!" Hooking his arm under Sam's, Dean hauled him out of the chair. Sam staggered, knees buckling, but Dean caught him. "It's okay! I got you… Keep your arms up for me and press them together, okay Sammy?"

Sam obeyed, both cuts pulsing angrily when they made contact. It was all he could think about as Dean dragged him toward the back of the house, away from the Carrigans. In the distance, he could hear his brother talking to him, but he couldn't make out the words. He couldn't focus. His wrists felt like they were burning…

Dean was sweating by the time he found the back door, which he frantically kicked open.

 _"Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back!"_

His injuries were throbbing, but they were nothing compared to Sam's.

 _"Now, Dean! Go!"_

They circled the house and scrambled for the Impala. Dean wrenched open the passenger door and helped his brother crawl in. Down the street, some carolers had turned to gawk at them. Thank god for small favors. The Carrigans were all about their secrecy — they might not attack with their neighbors watching.

Closing the door behind his brother, Dean raced to the trunk and scavenged through his duffel bag for some extra shirts. Then, he flew to the driver's seat and climbed in. "You're okay, Sammy… You're gonna be fine…" He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince as he reached over to check Sam's wrists. Much to his alarm, blood was already starting to seep through the napkins. "Nothing to worry about!" He quickly used the extra shirts to reinforce the makeshift bandages. "Okay, let's find a hospital. Stay with me, Sam. No sleeping!"

"Kay…" his brother mumbled, nodding weakly.

Dean grimaced, swiftly inserting his key into the ignition switch. The Impala roared to life and they sped away. With one eye on the road and one eye on the rear-view mirror, Dean tried not to think about the possibility of losing his brother. It wasn't going to happen.

It couldn't. It just…

It couldn't.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	4. The Hospital

**SPN**

 **(Ypsilanti, Michigan… December 25, 2007)**

"Mr. Stradlin, _please_. I know you're worried, but you need to remain in the waiting room until one of us comes to fetch you," a nurse insisted, craning her neck to look up at Dean as he glowered down at her. Tension was rolling from him in surges that he didn't even try to contain, but the nurse wasn't fazed; he wasn't the first agitated relative she'd dealt with and he certainly wouldn't be the last. "I promise you, I _will_ come and find you as soon as your brother is out of surgery."

With his jaw clenched hard and frustration darkening his eyes to a forest green, Dean allowed the petite woman to usher him back to the waiting room. It wasn't her fault — he knew that — but it had been hours.

Hours of sitting around and hearing nothing. It was well after midnight. Officially Christmas. All he wanted was some kind of assurance that Sam was safe! Was that too friggin' much to ask for?

He'd been out to the nurses' station six times and for the sake of expediency, he tried to show restraint. He would have preferred going out there and yelling at someone until they brought him to Sam, but experience taught him better. It rarely worked and the glint in the nurse's eye told him he wouldn't get far if he tried such antics here.

Dropping back into his rigid seat, Dean leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and raked both hands through his hair. The bandage on his index finger was rough against his scalp, his wounds throbbing dully around the edges of his awareness. Tears welled, burning in his eyes at the painful memory of his brother bleeding out. They'd been in some tight spots before, but never like this. He'd never looked over at Sam and wondered, even for the briefest moment, if he would make it.

 _"Hold on, Sammy, we're nearly there." Dean glanced over at his brother, reaching out a hand to clasp his shoulder, alarmed when he felt how cold Sam was through the thin material of his shirt. Sam turned heavy eyes up to him, his forearms still raised and clenched together, hugged to his chest. Dean pushed his foot down harder, seeing the bright hospital sign in the distance._

 _He floored it._

 _The tires on the Impala squealed as Dean threw it into a one-eighty, sailing around to a stop right outside the entrance. He cut the engine and was out and around before a disgruntled-looking orderly appeared through the automatic doors._

 _"Sir, you can't_ —" _she began, but she stopped short when he pulled Sam from the car, his little brother stumbling and falling against him._

 _"It's okay, Sam, I got you," Dean murmured, holding him up with both arms. He turned to the orderly, knowing how crazed he must look. "Please, he needs help. Now!"_

Seeing his brother wheeled away on a gurney, his face ashen and the blood seeping through the makeshift bandages, had been too much. He never wanted to see it again. Guilt weighed heavily on his heart knowing that he'd failed to keep his promise.

 _Watch out for Sammy._

Yeah, he'd done that… sat by as some monster tried to bleed the kid dry. He should've known it was a trap. He should've known that something wasn't right with Sam's powers. He should've known that they were in over their heads. He should've—

Dean's phone vibrated against his leg, momentarily snapping him out of his spiralling self-loathing. The buzz was short: a message. He dragged the phone out of his pocket and flipped the screen up to see a new text from his dad. His guilt spiked again as he opened it.

 **'I'm 2 hours out. Don't leave the hospital.'**

As if he could. Dean angrily snapped the phone shut, feeling like a recalcitrant child. Not because of his dad — John would come and he would listen with his quiet attentiveness. He might wear that look — that look of disappointment — but he wouldn't blame Dean outright, when deep down… Dean wanted the blame. He deserved it, he should shoulder it. If anything, John would turn his critical eye on Sam's abilities, but that wasn't fair. Sam was Dean's responsibility. All of it was Dean's responsibility.

Hell, maybe he was wrong; maybe this time it would be different. His dad couldn't keep overlooking his failures. Maybe today was the day when he would finally see Dean for what he really was. Useless.

 _"Sam's a treasure trove. You boys have any idea how much we can charge for psychic blood? Not to mention the brain and the eyeballs."_

What the hell would John say when Dean told him about the Carrigans' plan? Sam was already a target, and now they had to worry about a black market for psychics? Bile rose in Dean's throat, which he fought to swallow back down. John was gonna flip… but not on Sam. Dean wouldn't let that happen. No, when Sam woke up, he would be wallowing in his own guilt and frustration, and he didn't need an argument on top of that. It wasn't his fault. Dean would never let it be his fault. But how the hell was he supposed to save Sam from _everything_?

"Mr. Stradlin?" The nurse had popped her head in the room without him noticing. Dean immediately bolted upright, heart hammering even as she smiled at him. "Your brother's surgery was a success; if you'd have been a few minutes longer, I doubt he would've made it. He's one tough cookie."

"Yeah, he is," Dean replied, his shoulders visibly sagging as relief began to wash through him. "Where is he?"

"He's still unconscious at the moment, but if you'd like to follow me, I'll take you to him. It'll help to have a familiar face at his side when he wakes." She barely got the words out before Dean launched himself from the waiting room, driving her back into the quiet corridor. He wasn't good at trusting people when they assured him of his brother's health; he had to see it with his own eyes. Until then, he could hardly breathe, and it took all his discipline not to outpace the much smaller woman as she led him through the hospital.

"I should warn you," she said, inadvertently striking Dean with another bolt of fear. "He's going to look worse than he is. He lost a lot of blood and he's hooked up to a lot of machines, but I can promise you, he's out of the woods. He's just sleeping off the rest of the anaesthetic."

Dean gave a single hard nod, his lips tightly pursed. She was trying to say the right things, to comfort him, but promises from strangers meant nothing.

The walk took forever — the facility was large. At one point, Dean and the nurse were compelled to stop and stand to the side as a crowd of people rushed by with another patient on a gurney. But eventually, they made it; they came to a private recovery room, and the nurse ushered him inside. He thanked her, his voice unusually hoarse as he finally caught sight of his little brother.

Sam looked so… small.

Dean moved forwards from the doorway, his eyes fixed on Sam. The youngest Winchester lay on the hospital bed in a pale blue gown, his arms resting at his sides above the covers. Both were dressed in white bandages, brutal reminders of why he was in the bed in the first place. His hair was swept back from his forehead, a chestnut halo… Dean swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. The kid looked like Sam, but barely. His skin was clammy and anemic, as pale as the bed sheets. Considering how tan he usually was, Dean couldn't remember ever seeing him so ashen, not even when they first arrived at the hospital. A clear mask covered his nose and mouth, the green elastic bright against his cheeks. Around the bed were a slew of machines and equipment, including two bags that each fed into his arms just below the crooks of his elbows, one clear and the other red.

"It's all right."

Dean jumped, unaware that the nurse had stayed. He looked down at her, unable to hide his anguish. She reached out and squeezed his arm. "He's going to be fine. You saved his life… They started the blood transfusion while they were patching up his wrists, but it takes a while, so he'll be hooked up to another couple of bags overnight."

Dean would have said something in response, but couldn't get the words out. Meanwhile, a figure moved in the corner of the room. Dean's attention had been so fixated on his brother, he hadn't noticed… but now he whipped his head around to stare at a strange man in a security uniform. Tall and lean, he had the look of a trained soldier with a surprisingly sympathetic expression on his face. Still, Dean felt his hackles rise. "Who are you?"

"My name is James," the man replied in a calm, soft voice. "I'll be sitting with your brother until his evaluation—"

"Evaluation?" Dean shook his head, quickly putting the pieces together. Sammy's wrists were slit… Son of a… "No, he didn't do this. It's not what you think." Dean reached inside his jacket for his FBI badge and flipped it open. "I was on a case… Things went sideways. That's all I'm at liberty to say, but I can assure you, this wasn't a suicide attempt."

James squinted at the badge while the nurse poked her head around to look at it. Dean held his breath, silently willing them to drop the matter. And thankfully, they did.

James nodded. "Okay. I'll be right outside if you need me." As he left the room, the nurse bit her lip.

"Is there anything else we should know?" she asked nervously. "I mean… are there criminals on the loose? Are we in danger?"

Dean shook his head, returning the badge to his pocket. "Don't worry. My people will get the job done. I just…" He glanced back at Sam. "I should've known… he wasn't safe…"

She sighed, worry eclipsed by compassion. She gently nudged him in the arm. "Everything will be okay. Go and sit with him. And if you need me, there's a button on the table."

"Thank you," he whispered, grateful for her kindness but knowing full well he didn't deserve it. He wasn't the one lying in a hospital bed. As the nurse slipped away, Dean trudged over to a plump green chair next to the bed. He sank into it, keeping his eyes fixed on Sam, almost afraid he would disappear if he looked away. It was the same anxiety that gripped him two years ago: that constant fear that Sam would be gone, and that Dean would be to blame.

Propping his elbows on his knees, Dean leaned forward and clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. He listened to the steady beat of his brother's heart through the machines. He wasn't a praying man, but tonight, he would need all the faith he could find.

 **SPN**

A dull throbbing ran up both of his arms, stirring Sam from the oblivion he'd fallen into. A barrage of images kaleidoscoped in his mind's eye, darting too quickly for him to comprehend.

Flashes of an older couple... the Impala... Dean's horrified face as he disappeared down a bright corridor.

Something was beeping, pulsing around the edges of his awareness, its pace quickening. Sensation began to pour back into his body, merging with the elusive dreams that swept through his mind… until they stopped on one face… a face he hadn't thought about in over a week. It haunted him, the smile wide, the eyes alight with hunger as they felt the ghost sensation of a throat tingling beneath their hands…

 _"Oh, Sammy… you're just full of surprises! I love it! Let's wring his sorry neck._ "

Sam's eyes flew open and he gasped, drawing in a huge breath of cold air. His vision was blurred and the room was blinding. Something tight pressed over his mouth and nose, and the beeping around him was loud and erratic. He reached up to move the smothering object from his face, but something warm grabbed his hand, holding it gently but firmly. Wild-eyed, he looked over, blinking furiously at the shadowy figure beside him.

"...It's okay…" a distant voice called out to him, the figure gradually sharpening into focus until Sam recognized Dean's worried face. "Sammy, you're okay… I'm here," he repeated over and over until Sam finally understood. "I got you… You're okay…"

Sam moaned, struggling in vain to speak his brother's name, tugging on Dean's hand… He had to move the mask from his face; he couldn't breathe.

Except, he _could_ breathe, and Dean understood — he always understood. He gave Sam a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Not yet, kiddo. You have to keep it on. You know the drill."

Sam grimaced, letting his hand fall but still clinging to Dean's. He needed something — someone — to ground him, to keep him in the present when his awareness heightened, for with it came a surge of outside emotions. The hospital had many occupants, and they were all burdened with their own personal baggage. It was too much, threatening to drown him. Pain. Anger. Regret. Sadness. Sam gasped, heaving desperately for breath.

Dean winced when Sam's hand clamped down on his with surprising ferocity, considering the damage done to his wrists. He didn't have to guess the cause of his brother's disturbance, and felt another wave of alarm. He leaned forward, cupping Sam's face with his free hand.

"Sammy… hey…" he murmured urgently, brushing a stray bang from Sam's face. "Block it out, kiddo… C'mon… There's a lot of people in this place, and you don't need to be tuning into all their drama. You gotta focus, Sammy. C'mon." He hated that he couldn't do more to help; he was already blocking his own thoughts as much as possible, but he was a small drop in a vast ocean. Sam looked up at him, eyes brimming with unchecked agony. Dean returned his gaze, quietly encouraging him, wishing he could just ask the nurse to jack up the morphine and send Sam back to sleep… but he knew that wouldn't help; the psychic assault would continue regardless.

Slowly, minute by minute, Dean watched his little brother fight to regain control, to shore up the floodgates inside his mind. It took a while, but gradually, Sam's hand loosened and he sagged back against the pillow.

"That's it, Sammy," Dean exhaled, wondering — not for the first time — if Sam's abilities were really worth the turmoil.

 **SPN**

John arrived shortly after Sam woke up; Dean could tell, even before he heard the familiar tread of his footsteps, far too urgent for stealth. Sam had stiffened, for no apparent reason, and his gaze turned warily toward the door. But since he wasn't panicking, Dean could assume they weren't in danger, which meant their dad.

Like Dean, John was normally adept at blocking his mind from psychic intrusion — a necessary skill when living with a telepath — and after years of practice, it was second nature to them. However, blocking their minds and blocking their emotions were two very different things. Try as they might, the two older Winchesters weren't always 'zen,' especially in situations like this. John was either terrified… or pissed… possibly both.

When he finally appeared in the recovery room doorway, alongside the same petite nurse, looking more weathered and distressed than usual, Dean felt a weight off his shoulders. Despite everything, he knew their dad would protect them. He wasn't alone anymore. And if the Carrigans came snooping around, John would take care of it.

"I'll give you a moment," the nurse said gently, pulling the door shut as she stepped back out into the hallway.

Dean wearily rose to his feet while John stepped forward, staring at Sam with horror in his eyes. "Oh, god…"

Sam shifted on the bed, struggling once again to remove the oxygen mask — this time with more success. Pulling it down around his neck, he met his father's gaze, obviously troubled. He looked for all the world like a scared little kid, and Dean clenched his jaw. One way or another, the Carrigans would pay for this.

"Dad…" Sam's voice quivered. "It was my fault…"

Dean tensed, shaking his head. "Whoa, wait a minute! It's not—!"

John reached out to grip Dean's arm with a reassuring squeeze. "There's no point assigning blame. What's done is done." His words were soft, but Dean could tell, beneath the surface, John was deeply disgruntled. And if Dean could tell…

Sam was anxiously attempting to sit up, but his arms weren't cooperating. "I should've told Dean… It was a trap. I should've…" Tears were welling in his eyes. Dean inhaled, a breath away from losing his composure. Sam nearly died! He couldn't bear to see him like this.

"Listen to me, Sam," John said, taking a seat next to the bed, briefly glancing down at his bandages before looking back at his face. "You've been hurt, and you're letting your abilities run wild. You can't do that… not in a hospital. Listen to me…" He gently pressed his hand against Sam's cheek. "I won't deny I'm upset, but you can't blame me for that. We've got some angry gods on the loose, and they know exactly where to find us. I can only hope they care more about their secrecy than they do about vengeance, or we're sitting ducks. So right now, we have to focus on working together, you understand?"

Sam managed a weak nod, averting his eyes. "Yes, sir…"

Dean sighed, wiping his hand over his mouth, anxious to put this day behind him. It had to be the worst Christmas of their lives.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	5. Recurring Nightmares

**SPN**

 **(I-90W outskirts of Janesville, Iowa… December 28, 2007)**

 _"_ _I can't have you fidgeting, boy. You'll mess everything up. Try to lie still."_

 _Shax's face loomed over Sam in the darkness, his smile wide and grotesque_ — _a parody of happiness. Sam lay flat on a table in front of the demon, trying desperately to move any part of his body, but nothing cooperated. It felt like lead was weighing down his limbs, keeping him in place. He could feel himself bouncing and jostling, but it was the table's doing, not his own._

 _"_ _Stay away from me!" he barked, but his voice came out small and pathetic, with none of the bite he wanted. It was weak_ — _like him. Panic swelled as the demon's hand shot out, grabbing Sam's right wrist and twisting the inside around to face upwards. "No!" Sam moaned, tears pricking. Another hand grabbed his left wrist, holding it as well. He looked over, eyes widening at the sight of his brother grinning down at him, a maniacal expression on his face. He shook his head. "Don't! Don't do this, Dean! Please…" Sam sobbed when Dean's eyes shuttered, turning black. A familiar buzzing sound reverberated around him and he knew what was coming. Fighting uselessly, Sam turned from Dean, fixing his gaze on the long needle coil in Shax's hand._

 _The demon smirked, raising the needle high. "It hurts more when you fight."_

 _Fingers slid into his hair, yanking his head back, forcing Sam to look up. Jacob towered over him with his own eyes and his own hungry smile_ — _he wasn't possessed, but he was still a monster. "It hurts when you fight, little brother," he crooned in Sam's ear. "But god, I love it when you do."_

 _The needle plunged into Sam's wrist… and it felt like fire._

"SAM!"

The shout broke Sam from sleep and he jolted upright, eyes wide and disorientated. The Impala bounced and jostled beneath him, with Dean in the driver's seat next to him. His hand gripped Sam's arm — a soothing weight — and his gaze kept drifting from the road to watch him in concern. He didn't even bother hiding his anxiety. "Dude, you scared the crap outta me."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, glancing down at his wrists. They were both uncomfortable, burning and itching, but the left was noticeably worse than the right. He didn't want to admit it, but deep down, he understood what triggered the old nightmare. Beneath the white bandage and the stitches holding him together, the phantom memory of his tattoo still haunted him — the Styne family crest. He had been able to remove the demonic ink two years ago, thank god, but sometimes, Sam swore he could still feel it there.

"What were you dreaming about?" Dean asked, dropping his hand from Sam's arm, leaving him cold. Sam kept his eyes down, fingering the edge of the bandage. How was he supposed to admit that, in his nightmares, he was still weak? That Jacob still whispered vile half-truths in Sam's ear? He _knew_ Jacob was dead and wasn't coming back. He _knew_ the bastard was a manipulative monster, not his family. And yet…

He couldn't burden Dean with it. Such nightmares were his cross to bear, so instead, he lied, feeling guilty, but preferring it over the truth. "The Carrigans," he said with a shrug, staring out through the windshield, the Impala's headlights shining off the black tailgate of their dad's truck. "Flashes of the hospital… The usual stuff."

"Really." Dean's voice was hard and skeptical, making Sam swallow. He chanced a look at his big brother, noticing his frustration. "Cause the part with you tellin' me to 'stop' sure didn't sound like the Carrigans."

 _Damn_. He hated it when he spoke in his sleep. He was a professional liar, but he couldn't deny his own subconscious' attempts to out him.

"It was nothing."

"Sure didn't sound like nothin'," Dean muttered persistently. Ire spiked in Sam and he clenched his jaw before responding.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Sam…"

"No, Dean!" he snapped, his patience gone. "I mean it. Just drop it. I'm exhausted and I don't want to talk about it. For once, just… don't." He instantly regretted the outburst, but he couldn't take it back; he wasn't a kid anymore and he didn't deserve to be treated like one. His demons were his own and it was his choice to shoulder them alone. Despite what his family thought of him, he was capable of it, and he was getting sick of having to justify himself.

Silence settled over them like a dense, suffocating entity, but Sam refused to back down. Instead, he focused on the truck in front of them, which wasn't much of an improvement.

It had been tense in the hospital; he could feel John's disgruntlement. Not psychically, but Sam didn't need empathic abilities to recognize his father's mood. John was angry and frustrated, and no matter what he said, deep down he held Sam responsible for messing up the hunt.

Sam didn't blame him for thinking it; hell, he blamed himself. He _had_ messed it up. He'd been so afraid to admit that he was powerless that he'd nearly gotten his brother — and himself — killed. He should've realized.

"Stop it." Dean's gruff tone broke the silence and Sam glanced over at him, confused.

"Stop what?"

"Blamin' yourself, man," he replied, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "It's not like we've never had a hunt go sideways before. And the important thing is: we both got out."

"But the Carrigans are still alive," Sam insisted, hating how petulant he sounded. "It should've been an easy win."

Dean snorted. "Dude, that was _never_ gonna be an easy win. We were up against two pagan _gods_! So we didn't get them this time; we will eventually. We're just gonna have to wait a while; get you back up on your feet. And if we don't, Dad will. So stop beating yourself up over this. It's not like I'm blamin' you."

"I know _you_ aren't," Sam replied, his tone deliberately pointed. Dean said nothing, and Sam couldn't tell if he agreed or just didn't want to argue about it — he really was skilled at blocking his thoughts. But the silence that fell in around them was comfortable until the sway of the road soothed Sam back into a dreamless doze.

 **SPN**

 **(Oakdale Motel, Oakdale, Wisconsin… December 28, 2007)**

"Sam, wake up, kiddo," Dean called, shaking Sam lightly. The youngest Winchester blinked awake, glancing blearily at his brother before looking around. He rubbed at his eye with one hand.

"We at Bobby's already?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

"Nah. Dad wants to stop for the night, so it's another motel for us!" Dean smiled, trying to sound enthusiastic, before clambering out of the car into the darkness beyond. Sam frowned; it was an eleven-hour drive from Ypsilanti to Sioux Falls, which wasn't far enough to warrant a stop. At least not for John or Dean.

It was because of him.

Sam clenched his jaw and fumbled with the door handle, hating the way his fingers were stiff and clumsy. They were stopping because John decided Sam needed to. He didn't ask; he assumed, like always. Sam lurched out of the Impala, swallowing the resentment that was building in the pit of his stomach.

Dean was already grabbing their duffel bags from the trunk, slinging his own over his shoulder while grasping Sam's in his hand. They walked past John's truck and spied their father emerging from the motel office, his face grim. He led them toward a row of rooms adjacent to the cars, with Sam trailing behind, exhausted despite sleeping for most of the journey. John said nothing as he opened the door and stalked inside.

The room was sparsely decorated: a dark wooden screen with carved oak leaves obscured the view from the doorway to the living area. It smelled exactly like every other motel they'd occupied over the years: stale beer, smoke, and deficient air fresheners. It was almost homely. Twin beds stood side by side opposite a three-person sofa upholstered in a faded moss green.

All three filtered in, Dean dumping their bags on the nearest bed while John threw his on the sofa.

"How you feelin'?" John asked, turning his gaze on Sam. The youngest Winchester's bad mood simmered, even though he knew that John was just worried about him.

"I'm fine," he ground out through his teeth. "I don't know why we stopped."

He watched John fight the urge to roll his eyes. "Dean has your meds. He can help you with the shower and your bandages. Make it quick. We'll be leaving early, and you need to sleep."

"I can sleep in the car," Sam insisted. "The sooner we get to Bobby's, the sooner we can pick up the Carrigans' trail."

"Sam…" Dean interjected, the word more of a plea than a warning. Sam ignored him, keeping his eyes on John. A muscle ticked in his father's jaw.

"Let me worry about that," he replied, his voice low and measured. "Right now, I need you to focus on healing properly."

" _You'll_ worry about it?" Sam snapped angrily. "So now you don't trust me." He balled his fists, despite the pain it caused, reminding him of his failure.

"I didn't say that," John growled, his own temper on the verge of flaring. He paused, breathing deeply before fixing his youngest with a stern look. "You're tired and we've stopped for a reason. Now get yourself cleaned up and go to bed. That's an order."

Sam felt his temper snap like a wire. "Screw your 'orders', Dad! I'm not a kid and you can't keep treating me like one!"

"You are _my_ kid, Sam, and I decide what's best for you," John growled harshly. "Right now, that involves less argument from you and more of the maturity you would have if you really were the adult you claim to be."

"' _Claim_ ' to be?!" Sam shouted. "Where do you get off, Dad? You send us on dangerous hunts, you don't answer your phone, and you leave us to fend for ourselves, but when you have a problem with our work, you think you can just waltz back in and take over!" With a quiet groan, Dean walked up to Sam and placed a hand on his arm, but Sam shrugged him off. "This is because of what happened, isn't it? You think it was my fault!"

Dean tried to interrupt. "Sam, c'mon, you're being—"

Sam wheeled on him, eyes livid. "Being what? Honest? That's more than _him_!"

"Watch your tone, Sam," John warned, his lip curling. Sam laughed, a bitter mirthless sound.

"Or what? You'll blame this all on me too?"

"You wanna know what I really think?" John asked, his patience tearing.

"Dad, don't—!" Dean stepped between the two men, dread pooling in his gut. John ignored him.

"I think you were on a damned difficult hunt," he roared belligerently. "And instead of recognizing that you were in over your head, you let your pride win out, and nearly got yourself killed! You lost your abilities, and you were so afraid we'd think less of you that you made a dumb, almost fatal mistake. I taught you better than that!"

Sam had been telling himself the same thing, practically word for word, but still, hearing it from his dad stung. "You think I don't know that? It was a tough call, and I screwed up! Is that what you want to hear?"

"What I want is for you to stop being reckless!" John retorted. "Ever since you embraced your powers, you've been acting like you're invincible, and clearly you're not! When are you going to realize…?" He trailed off, turning away, struggling to regain his composure.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Realize what, Dad? Don't stop on my account."

John sighed, taking a breath, then glanced back at Sam, his voice unwavering. "That sometimes I think we'd all be better off without your abilities."

The air evaporated from Sam's lungs, leaving him speechless, and he simply stared at his father, horrified. He often suspected John's feelings but to have them confirmed…

 _He thinks you're incapable._

The doubt, the insecurity that he was always trying to push back, surged forward, solidifying in his stomach, making him nauseous. He had to get out — he needed space. Eyes flashing in both pain and anger, Sam fought to find his voice.

"Screw you, Dad," he choked out before turning on his heel and storming from the room. He heard Dean say something, but didn't listen — he couldn't. Stalking across the parking lot, he ignored the Impala and John's truck, since he couldn't grip the steering wheel until his wrists healed. The thought irked him even more, tinging his vision red. He didn't deserve any of this!

"Sam, wait!" he heard Dean call, but he stubbornly kept walking. The darkness beyond the parking lot loomed in front of him, shrouding the black trees that bordered the motel. He marched ahead, oblivious to his throbbing wrists and the pounding headache that pushed behind his eyes. Footfalls ran up behind him. "Sammy, stop!" Dean's hand grabbed his arm and Sam yanked away from him.

"Get off me, Dean!" he snapped, glaring at his brother before venturing deeper into the woods. Forest debris crunched beneath his feet, cracking through the silence as he burned off his anger. Dean followed quietly, taking the hint. He stopped trying to control the situation, and for that, Sam was grateful… but it didn't mean his brother would let him run off on his own.

As they walked, the cold air bit into Sam's cheeks, taking the fire out of his stride. Gradually, he slowed down, coming to a halt in a clearing where he gazed up at the sky, his breath billowing around him in puffs of white. His shoulders sagged and the tension eased out of his neck, leaving only the dull ache in his wrists.

Dean stood a ways back, watching his little brother wage war within himself. He hated it when arguments broke out — they never ended well — but he could never manage to stop them. And to make matters worse, he was always faced with the same dilemma: who was he supposed to side with? He understood his dad's perspective — maybe Sam's powers did over-complicate their lives… but he also empathized with his brother. Sam's abilities were a part of him. He had saved dozens of people over the past two years, and Dean had watched him constantly striving to prove himself… to prove he wasn't the monster that destiny — or demons — would have him become.

One mistake didn't mean he was damned.

"I'm so sick of this," Sam murmured. Dean's heart ached at the turmoil in his voice. "I'm sick of getting things wrong, of having to justify every move I make, of feeling… like I'm tainted."

"Sammy, you're not," Dean replied, his breath frosting the air. "Dad was angry. He didn't mean it."

Sam turned to look at him, his eyes dark and sad in the moonlight. "Yeah he did, Dean. We both know that. I can't keep living my life like this — afraid of what he thinks, of when he'll decide that I've gone too far. I'm never gonna be good enough for him and I can't deal with that anymore. I just…"

"Just what?" Dean asked, a pit in his stomach.

"I just want to help people," Sam whispered, blinking away the tears that had welled in his eyes. "I want to be good at what we do."

"You _do_ help people, Sammy — we've saved so many lives," Dean insisted, reaching up to clasp his brother's shoulder. This time, Sam didn't shrug him off. "Look, let's just go back. We're all exhausted; we can sort this out later. You're dead on your feet, and being out in the cold ain't gonna help."

Sam shook his head, his mouth a thin line. "I'm not going back in there, Dean. I can't. I won't."

Dean bit back the groan that threatened to escape. Sometimes he wondered how he ever got stuck with the reputation of being the hot-headed one in the family. When John and Sam went for each other, there was no stopping them… but Dean wasn't about to allow another big blow-out, like when Sam left for school.

"All right, I'll get us another room," he offered. "We can sort this out when we're back on home turf, okay?"

Sam nodded, suddenly drained down to his very core. He turned towards his brother and tried to walk, only to have his leg give out in exhaustion. Dean caught him before he fell.

"Easy, kiddo. C'mon, I got you." Dean hooked Sam's arm around his neck while wrapping his own arm around Sam's waist. It would be a long hike back to the motel, and Sam had to concentrate on every step he took. He said nothing as he leaned heavily on his big brother, but he was silently thankful that Dean always had his back.

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana… December 31, 2007)**

Dario Polidori's mansion was nestled on the edge of Cross Lake. Built two years ago, it resembled an antebellum plantation home — as secluded as it was luxurious — surrounded by open woodland. The driveway was over half a mile long with large glowing light orbs stretching along either side, leading the way through the moss-covered trees that protected and shrouded the property. On an evening such as this, the lights were needed. Heavy rain had fallen relentlessly all day, battering the city. Cars and limousines pulled up as close to the veranda as possible, an army of staff waiting with umbrellas to greet and guide the steady stream of guests into the home.

Daisy Parson stared up at the place in awe. She'd been to many upscale parties in extravagant venues throughout her life, but the Polidori mansion far outclassed them all — with one exception, but interdimensional fantasy palaces didn't count. Red spotlights illumined the front of the house, making the rain glisten like rubies. Every window was lit up; ornate chandeliers and towering Christmas trees were visible from the outside.

When Daisy's car reached the veranda steps, two men in tuxedos came to meet her. One carried an umbrella, and the other a notepad which he used to write down her license plate number. Thank god for complimentary valet parking.

"Good evening, Miss Parson," the first man said as he opened the door, holding out a hand while sheltering her with his umbrella. Daisy blinked in surprise: she'd never seen him before, so she wasn't expecting him to know her name. Yet, if the rumors about her host were true, then he probably primed his entire staff to recognize the guests.

"Thank you," she said, smiling politely as she took his hand. The red carpet leading up to the veranda had been soaked by the rain, so she was very careful to hold up the skirts of her violet tulle dress when she stepped out of the car. With the man's help, she scurried to the grand entryway, resenting the silver-strapped shoes that slowed her down. Once she was safely inside, she thanked the man again. He gave her a cordial nod and turned back to assist those next in line.

Taking a deep breath, Daisy ventured into the mansion. An usher quickly appeared, graciously offering to hang her purse and shoulder wrap. "Thank you," she said yet again, relinquishing the items, grateful it wasn't too cold. The crystal straps of her dress were all that covered her shoulders.

"Daisy!" a familiar voice called out. "How splendid you look!"

She turned and smiled as Paige Fontaine came flitting from one of the reception rooms. The older woman reached out and brushed a stray wisp of hair back behind Daisy's ear. "Dario's in for a treat! Come along; you must meet him!"

Paige linked her arm through Daisy's and steered her into a spacious lounge with a marble floor, plump white sofas, and a fir tree adorned with black and gold streamers. People stood in small groups conversing and laughing, champagne flutes in their perfectly manicured hands. Some Daisy recognized, some she didn't, but there was a level of excitement sparking through the air unlike anything she'd felt in a long time.

As they made their way through the crowd, a waiter stepped forward with a tray of champagne flutes. Daisy took one, officially joining the celebration. It was New Year's Eve, and maybe Paige was right. What better time to put the past behind her and move on with her life?

At the back of the lounge stood a wide door that led into the main ballroom, where live musicians played jazz from the stage while dozens of guests mingled happily. The decorations were extravagant: festive wreaths and floral displays, plus an ice sculpture of an eagle gripping the summit of a mountain, wings spread wide. It was both remarkable and… unsettling — but she had no time to dwell on it. Paige was guiding her towards a small cluster of people standing in the centre of the room.

"Dario, darling!" Paige exclaimed, catching the attention of a young man in his late twenties. He stood head and shoulders above the other guests, with sleek blond hair and a Brioni suit. Despite everything, Daisy's heart fluttered as he turned his piercing grey eyes on them. When he saw Paige, he flashed a charming smile and excused himself from his current conversation.

"Mrs. Fontaine, what a delight!" He spoke with a subtle Swiss accent, catching Daisy off guard. She never would have guessed…

Something wasn't right, and she felt a brief moment of hesitation.

Paige, however, didn't seem to notice. "It's so good to see you again!" They kissed each other's cheeks; then Paige gestured at Daisy. "Dario, allow me to introduce my good friend, Daisy Parson. She works with Sheriff Treadwell at the police station."

"Of course!" Dario reached for Daisy's hand and held it warmly to his lips. "I'm so glad you could make it, Miss Parson. Truly."

She flushed, feeling dizzy — both flattered and bewildered. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Polidori," she said, struggling to keep up. "You have a lovely home."

"It's yours to enjoy for the evening," he graciously replied. "I've been looking forward to this; I've heard nothing but good things about the people of this fine city, and I intend to know you all."

Something about his word choice troubled Daisy, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Then again, maybe English wasn't Dario's first language. "I noticed the red spotlights when I came in. Are they in homage to your country?"

Dario raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. "They are, indeed. I'm impressed, Miss Parson. Are you familiar with Switzerland?"

"I—"

Lightning flashed in the ballroom's Palladian windows, followed by a raging clap of thunder. Daisy jumped, nearly dropping her champagne, but Dario reached out to steady her. While several men laughed and raised their glasses to the storm, Daisy smiled sheepishly. "A shame about the weather," she said.

"Nonsense," Dario replied. "It adds to the excitement. I love a good storm." While he spoke, his gaze drifted past Daisy and observed someone behind her. He sighed. "Alas… Business before pleasure." He glanced back down at Daisy and squeezed her arm. "You must forgive me, Miss Parson. My family is arriving for the party, and I must prepare to introduce them. But we'll talk again later, yes?"

"Oh, of course, Mr. Polidori," she replied, torn between relief and disappointment. "Don't let me keep you."

He smiled. "You must call me Dario." And with that, he excused himself.

Once he was a safe distance away, Daisy took a deep breath and leaned on Paige for support. That was… overwhelming. She couldn't help but think of Jacob, and wondered what _he_ would make of a man like Dario Polidori.

"Well done!" Paige quietly applauded. "That was brilliant, mentioning his country. To be honest, I suspect most of these ladies think he's from Italy."

"His voice gave him away," Daisy whispered back, heart pounding. "He sounded like…" _It couldn't be…_ "He sounded like Victor Styne."

Paige stiffened, taken aback, but she quickly recovered and laughed it off. "Don't be ridiculous."

Daisy shrugged, unable to shake the strange feeling… But at least she recognized many of the guests surrounding her. Shreveport's finest. Sheriff Treadwell stood nearby with the mayor and two members of the city council. The Lockes were chatting with the Ackermans. Over by the ice sculpture, Arthur Fontaine — Paige's husband — was drinking with Judge Manning. These were civilized people. Daisy could trust them not to become savage, frenzied barbarians, and that was a comfort.

They spent the next few hours enjoying the party, eating, drinking, and catching up with old acquaintances, although Daisy declined the men who asked her to dance. She wasn't quite ready for that yet.

It was half past eleven when the musicians cleared the stage, making way for six floor-standing candelabras. Soon, the stroke of midnight would usher in the new year, and Daisy hoped it would be calm and mild… but considering the storm outside, she seriously doubted it. The lights in the ballroom dimmed, prompting the guests to gather around the stage, which was eerily aglow in candlelight. While most of them watched in curiosity, expecting some kind of entertainment, Daisy felt a nagging sense of foreboding.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Dario Polidori said as he took to the stage with an ear-hook microphone, closely followed by an older couple and a young woman around Daisy's age. His family, perhaps. They all shared the same golden hair, and the man wore a Brioni suit very similar to Dario's. His partner carried herself with the poise of a matriarch, decked in a black, floor-length gown that shimmered in sequins, while the younger woman modeled a backless red dress with a bored expression on her chiseled face.

Daisy didn't know why, but something about them seemed familiar — and the shadows dancing around them were definitely sinister.

"I trust you're all having a memorable New Year's," Dario continued, smiling at the crowd's polite applause. "I have not lived in this country long, but I have felt most welcome by your gracious hospitality, and I should like to return that hospitality to each of you here tonight. What's more, I should like to welcome you all into my confidence. It is my understanding that each of you enjoyed the patronage of my extended family, and while they are gone now, I fully intend to renew that relationship."

Daisy's breath caught in her throat. No… It couldn't be…

"And so!" Dario exclaimed. "To that end, I am thrilled to announce my real name, to introduce my family, and to reclaim our rightful position in this fine community."

The crowd stood frozen, hanging onto every word in shocked disbelief.

Dario held out his arms. "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dario Styne! My family has returned to claim what is ours!"

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	6. Negotiations

**SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana… January 2, 2008)**

Two days later, Daisy found herself back in the hub of the Shreveport police department, where a bevy of cops and other city employees went about their daily routines in the wide office bullpen.

" _My family has returned to claim what is ours!"_

Dario Styne's words kept recycling through her mind, ratcheting up her anxiety. She'd been right about recognizing his accent and, for once, she'd wished she'd been wrong. Because having the Styne family back in Shreveport couldn't mean anything good for her. Her New Year's holiday had been spent between her bed and bathroom, retching up anything she tried to force down her throat.

But she couldn't take time off without rousing suspicion. Dario had announced his family's intention to convene with anyone and everyone who had a personal or professional connection to their American relatives.

That included her.

So now, Daisy sat anxiously at her workstation, tired eyes on her computer screen, trying not to think about her upcoming encounter with the family. If she knew anything about the Stynes, then her fate would depend on her conduct over the course of their 'interview' — there was no other term for it. The Stynes would select their new favorites and weed out the unworthy.

Before the wedding, she had pledged her life to Monroe, following in her parents' footsteps. Everyone in Shreveport knew what an honor it was to serve their local 'gods,' and even now, after their alleged downfall, many remained faithful — like the Fontaines and Sheriff Treadwell. Somehow, Daisy had never perceived the full depth of their devotion… Still, a part of her had shared that devotion, not so long ago, and she wasn't stupid enough to bite the hand that fed her. She had dressed for the occasion, wearing a crisp white blouse and black pencil skirt, but her appearance meant little if she failed to muster the loyalty she once felt for the monsters.

There was a time when she would have done anything the Stynes asked of her, especially if it meant pleasing Jacob. But Jacob was gone now, and besides, he had abandoned her when she needed him the most. The Stynes could not be trusted; their promises were empty, and in their minds, everyone was expendable. Why did it take her so long to see the truth?

After finally recognizing the full extent of their depravity, guilt became a constant bedfellow for the young woman. The Stynes were evil, and in the last two years, she'd taken on a whole new perspective of all the things she'd done for them. She had been complicit. She was their accomplice; she was every bit as vile, and if she had a shred of decency, she would make up for her sins by doing something — _anything_ — to oppose the tyrannical family.

But, deep down, Daisy knew she was useless against them. The police were in bed with the Stynes — they had given them the conference room in their own department to host these 'meetings.' A braver woman might call the FBI — Special Agent Henriksen — but to what end? Unless Dario and his family were wanted for their own crimes, they could not be prosecuted for Monroe's atrocities, and they never would have introduced themselves at the New Year's Eve party if they feared the law. No, the only ones who could stand up to the Stynes were the Winchesters and Daisy had no idea how to contact them. She was trapped, and she didn't want to think about the repercussions if they caught her trying to expose them. Her punishment would be worse than death.

And so, here she was, struggling to hide her distress while waiting her turn.

Eventually, the door to the conference room swung open. Daisy flinched, trying not to tremble as she watched Sheriff Treadwell usher out the Fontaines from the corner of her eye. Arthur was smiling with smug satisfaction, and he shook Treadwell's hand with genuine pleasure. Evidently, he was thrilled by the Stynes' return. Paige, however, seemed considerably paler than normal. She hid it well, but she was nervous, and even from across the room, Daisy could tell she was deliberately trying to avoid looking at her. Paige was a proud, confident woman; seeing her display such timid behaviour left ice crystallizing in Daisy's gut. She'd expected some sort of reassurance from the older woman, but… maybe Dario was displeased. Daisy swallowed, hard. What if he was already displeased with _her_? She'd only met him once and quickly replayed the conversation in her mind, looking for any just cause of his presumed irritation.

 _You're being irrational. Stop it._

Easier said than done, particularly when going up against a family like the Stynes. Daisy stared vacantly as Treadwell led the Fontaines to the front of the building, only snapping back to attention when he paused at her desk. Meekly, she turned her gaze up to meet his unreadable expression. "They're ready for you now."

"Yes, sir," she replied, the ice in her stomach spreading as she tried to calm herself. She had a good reputation: her history with the Stynes was impeccable, which _had_ to work in her favor, even if she fumbled her way through her interview. She'd even been Elizabeth's bridesmaid! That had to count for something. The uncertainty of it all was the worst; it was going to drive her insane.

The only thing she did know was that she didn't want to die.

Getting to her feet, she turned towards the conference room. Taking a shallow breath, she glanced at the ominously-closed door, mustering what remained of her dignity before advancing slowly. With each step, she had to reassure herself: the Stynes had no reason to question her loyalty. She'd been faithful in the past. Her friends were their allies. Most of all, as long as she watched her tongue, she would survive.

Knocking on the door, she peered into the conference room. "You asked to see me?"

The Stynes were sitting next to each other on the far side of a long polished meeting table — a panel of ruthless judges. Dario and his uncle, Mortimer, were both dressed in tailored charcoal suits. Mortimer's wife, Charlotte, wore an elegant black sheath dress with a matching blazer, while their daughter, Gemma, wore a blue sleeveless dress with a keyhole neckline. All four of them were tall and exquisite, like gods amongst mortals. They smiled warmly at her. Dario and Mortimer actually stood up to greet her, feigning gallantry, but Daisy could see the predatory glint lurking in each of their eyes, and she nearly fled.

"Hello, Daisy," Dario said with honey in his voice. "It is so good to see you again. I've been looking forward to this meeting. Please come in! You can close the door behind you."

Heart pounding, Daisy obeyed. "I can't tell you what an honor it is…" she heard herself lie as she sat across from them. Self-preservation was a powerful tool in situations like these.

Mortimer smirked, waving a flippant hand. "Please, that won't be necessary." Once Daisy was settled, the two men sat back down, and for a moment, no one said a word. They were all staring at her with their friendly, but penetrating blue eyes — if she felt comfortable, she might drop her guard, and then they could gauge her loyalty. The problem was… Daisy felt far from comfortable.

After a beat, Mortimer began. "You don't have anything to be worried about, Miss Parson. We are well aware of your dedication to our family, and we greatly appreciate your service over the years. If there is anything we can do to express our gratitude, you must let us know."

Daisy caught her breath, and she thought back to her father's old advice. " _Take care not to scorn the gifts of the gods…"_ But what could she possibly say? That she would give anything in the world to go back in time? Not wanting to test their patience, she searched desperately for the proper response.

"You're too kind. These past few years have been so… empty. Just having you here is more than I could ask for," she offered, forcing a smile that must have looked nervous despite her best efforts. Not that any of the Stynes seemed to notice. Dario nodded his approval. Mortimer and Charlotte exchanged smiles. Gemma leaned forward, her interest clearly piqued.

"I can certainly see why he liked you," she said, her voice soft and silky — almost mesmerizing.

Daisy frowned. "Who?"

"My cousin," she replied serenely. "Jacob."

Daisy stiffened, her cheeks flushing.

"He spoke quite fondly of you," Gemma continued, as if they were the only ones in the room. "You must miss him very much."

Daisy dropped her gaze, rattled and confused. She wasn't prepared for this. "I…" she began, but words failed her. She would never forget how Jacob left her… forsaking her when she needed him the most. She wanted to hate him for it. And yet, somehow, it wasn't enough to erase her feelings for him. She loved him. She always would. It was devastating — a conflict she could never reconcile. And now, with her heart under scrutiny, she felt like sinking into the floor. "I could never hope to be worthy of him."

"You underestimate yourself," Dario assured her.

"Daisy," Charlotte cut in, her tone sharp and authoritative. "We have to ask… After the wedding, did you hear anything from Jacob? Or Elizabeth? We understand you enjoyed their favor. Did they reach out to you for aid?"

"No, ma'am," Daisy replied, the question catching her off guard. Maybe that was their play. She had to keep her wits about her. "Not to me. Sheriff Treadwell said something about Jacob returning for supplies — a knife and a compass, I believe."

"Yes," Charlotte sighed, almost dramatically. "So we've heard. You see, my dear, we're looking for that compass. It will point us toward a very precious family heirloom which we are eager to find. Are you _sure_ there nothing else you can add? Your assistance will go a long way towards restoring our good name."

"I wish I could help," Daisy lied. "But I never saw Jacob after that night. Or Elizabeth. According to Sheriff Treadwell's private investigation, they disappeared two years ago, and are both presumed dead. That is all I know."

"How disappointing," Charlotte mused, shaking her head. She turned to regard her husband. "We're running out of options."

Daisy glanced nervously at Mortimer, fear spiking through her. She had nothing to offer them, and she couldn't make up a false report — that would be asking for trouble. They would find out. The Stynes always did. Daisy was useless to them, and that was a dangerous position to be in.

Despite his wife's countenance, Mortimer barely moved. His eyes were cold and calculating, all traces of amiability gone. "Gemma," he said after a pause, glancing over at his daughter. They exchanged a brief, silent look that Daisy couldn't comprehend, and with the nod of his head, Mortimer motioned for her to proceed. Gemma immediately rose to her feet.

Daisy tensed, watching apprehensively as the beautiful young woman sauntered around the table. Despite her calm, gentle expression, something about her approach filled Daisy with dread.

"Jacob was the last known man to bear the compass," Gemma disclosed, her tone light and alluring, but her gaze hard and merciless. "And the compass will guide us to the book. It's not our only lead, but it's certainly the easiest. We can waste our time tracking down hunters and demons, or we can expedite the process by consulting one of our own. We need Jacob. And there's a very simple way to raise him from the dead. Will you help us, Daisy?"

Her voice was so… hypnotic. Daisy gazed up at her in bewilderment. She knew about the supernatural; she'd seen it for herself. But she was just an ordinary woman; how could she possibly help the Stynes? She didn't want to, not really, but Gemma's request was so… tantalizing.

What if they could bring Jacob back? It was all Daisy wanted — the only thing in the world that would make this hell worth living. She blinked, suddenly aware of how loose her limbs had become.

"I don't understand… What's happening?" she asked, confusion coloring her voice.

"Ssshhh…" Gemma sat down next to her and gripped her hands — the contact sent a spark surging through Daisy's body, making her jump. But then, a calm unlike any she'd felt in years passed through her, leaving her relaxed and languid. Gemma smiled, caressing her hair. "That's it. Let it all go… I have you… Everything will be okay… Tell me, _härzli_ , what would you give to see Jacob again?"

"Anything." The word fell from Daisy's lips as easy as breathing.

"Good," Gemma cooed, still stroking her hair. "I'm going to help you find him. Would you like that?" Daisy felt herself nodding without a second thought. Gemma's dazzling blue eyes were all she could see. "I know you would. Come with me, _härzli_. I'll take you to him." Gently, Gemma pulled Daisy to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist. The movement made Daisy's head swim; it was like walking on water with Gemma as her anchor. She could go anywhere like this; be anything. She was completely free. "Thatta girl," Gemma whispered in her ear. "Come fly with me. We'll find Jacob together. I want you to be with him."

Together, they made their way over to the door, where Dario met them with a twisted smirk. He stared down at Daisy, impressed with Gemma's work. The young woman's eyes were unfocused, her body completely relaxed and fluid. Gemma could have told her to walk off the building and she'd obey without question. It was almost tempting to suggest it… if they didn't need her.

Gemma crooned words of encouragement to the girl beside her, baring her teeth in a vicious smile. Silently, Dario opened the door for them, listening as Mortimer spoke on the phone behind him.

"Ajay," the older Styne said brusquely. "I'm sending the children out to the old rendezvous point. They have payment with them."

"That's it, keep going, _härzli_ ," Gemma murmured softly in Daisy's ear as she guided her forwards. They walked slowly, oblivious to the crowd of onlookers in the office bullpen. Daisy wouldn't have noticed if they'd stepped in front of her. Gemma's arm was warm and comforting around her waist, her words soft and sweet as Daisy's mind revolved around Jacob. She ached to see him, to touch him. To find all the words she'd wanted to say to him.

She was caught completely in Gemma's thrall, and she didn't even realize it.

Dario had to admit, he loved watching his cousin ensnare people; she had been doing it for generations and made it look so easy. Elizabeth might have been the family's best fortune-teller, but Gemma was their best enchantress — practically a siren. She could only control one victim at a time, but still… Dario would give anything for that kind of power over people. He envied Gemma, but he also idolized her.

"Is everything all right?" Sheriff Treadwell asked, walking up to them with a concerned glance at Daisy.

Dario waved him off. "There's no need to worry, Graham. Miss Parson is safe in our care. Trust me." A flicker of alarm crossed the sheriff's face, but he knew better than to object. He would no doubt mourn the loss of his assistant, but the sacrifice was necessary, and he would be compensated.

That's all anyone cared about.

Without further delay, Dario and Gemma led their victim out of the police department. Their chauffeur, Giles, had already brought the limousine around to the front of the building, and Dario graciously held the door open for the ladies. They climbed into the luxurious passenger compartment, which featured leather seats, a plush carpet, neon accent lights, and a first-class bar. The partition separating them from the driver's seat was appropriately closed, ensuring their privacy. Dario felt a thrill of anticipation as they began their journey — they didn't have far to drive, so he couldn't waste a moment.

He opened a side panel built into the door and extracted a long coil of white nylon rope.

Gemma groaned at the sight. "That's hardly necessary."

But Dario would not be deterred. "If we want to sell her as sweet and innocent, we have to make her look the part." He reached over to claim his prize, and thankfully, Gemma didn't stop him. Pulling Daisy close, he twisted her body to face away from him and tugged on her arms, pulling them behind her back.

He might not be able to control people, but he could still subjugate them. And to be honest, he had been hoping for an opportunity to conquer Daisy ever since he first laid eyes on her. She was an attractive girl: timid and vulnerable. Nothing remotely evil could resist toying with such creatures, and Dario was no exception.

He hastily crossed Daisy's wrists before wrapping the rope around them. With each pass, he pulled the rope tight, digging into the girl's skin, and he was pleased to hear her gasp in pain. As long as she remained under Gemma's influence, she would not struggle, but she would still cry if Dario hurt her, and at that moment, nothing would give him more satisfaction. Once he tied off the rope, he grasped her forearm and squeezed, feeling her bones — the radius and ulna — compress.

She cried out in panic, prompting Gemma to fish an old rag out of the side panel. She quickly stuffed it in Daisy's mouth, glaring at Dario in irritation. "Are you trying to give me a headache?"

He ignored her, too busy savoring the moment. He just needed to add a bit more pressure…

Snap.

The bones shattered, and Daisy screamed. She doubled over, convulsing in agony, while a rush of euphoria coursed through Dario's body.

"That's enough!" Gemma chastised, raising her voice to be heard over Daisy's sobs, even with the gag. "Damaged goods lose their value, idiot! You know that!"

But it was so worth it… Dario sat back in his seat, basking in the afterglow of his brutality. He watched Daisy squirming helplessly, her cries muffled, and he smiled. "You know, Gemma… It wouldn't kill you to break the rules every now and then. It can be a lot of fun."

She scoffed. "I've lived three lifetimes, Dario. This world… It's dull, predictable, and ugly. You'll need to find something a lot more entertaining than some half-wit girl to amuse me."

Dario cocked his head. "All right… What would it take?"

She shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

 **SPN**

The limousine pulled up to an overgrown graveyard near an abandoned church with a broken steeple. Giles remained in the driver's seat, as instructed, while Dario helped Gemma and Daisy climb outside. The mesmerized woman was sobbing hysterically, but the gag kept her quiet, and she made no attempt to run.

It was surprisingly brisk, considering their location. They were in the deep south, and Dario had been under the impression that it was always hot. Still, it couldn't compare to winters back home, and he might as well enjoy the mild weather. There wasn't much else to enjoy in this dump.

"Why here?" he grumbled, more to himself than Gemma, and she didn't bother to respond. From what they had been told, the church was the only building for miles. They were literally in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees full of cicadas. Naturally, Uncle Monroe would choose a remote setting for his business transactions, but if he had to live in Louisiana, why couldn't it be somewhere closer to New Orleans? What was so great about Shreveport?

But there was no sense complaining. They had waited two years for the dust to settle after Monroe's brood humiliated them, bringing shame down on their family. Now, at long last, the time was right for them to restore their honor, when their enemies least expected it. If that meant establishing their base of operations in the armpit of civilization, then so be it. Dario would survive.

"This way," Gemma said, guiding Daisy into the graveyard with Dario sauntering behind them. The headstones were old, either covered with moss and other creeping plants or washed out with age. Except for one.

At the far end of the graveyard stood a tall black obelisk — the only one of its kind. Clean and unblemished, it was built not as a monument, but as a landmark for those resourceful enough to bargain with reapers — specifically rogue reapers. Historically, the Stynes partnered with one named Bianca. They would cook up legacies of the Men of Letters in a special ritual for her to consume. In return, she would reincarnate the Stynes after their deaths. If it weren't for the Winchesters, they would still be in business, but alas. Bianca had been killed for her transgressions. So now, the Stynes had to start from the ground up, and they had finally found a potential recruit.

Presently, as Gemma, Daisy, and Dario walked up to the obelisk, a man appeared out from behind it. Tall and slender, with dark hair, olive skin, and a strong face, he would have been respectable if not for his shabby clothes. What kind of reaper dressed like a peasant? Jeans, a cheap cotton shirt and a faded jacket. Dario curled his lip in disgust.

"Thank you for coming, Ajay," Gemma said, taking the lead. "I promise, it will be worth your time."

Ajay crossed his arms, unconvinced. "Your father said as much, but there's only so much he can reveal over the phone. I thought I made it clear, I have no desire to pick up where Bianca left off. It's too risky. Way above my pay grade."

"Of course," Gemma replied, unfazed. "We would _never_ ask you to operate outside your comfort zone." It was such an outrageous lie even Ajay scoffed in disbelief. Gemma casually shoved Daisy forward. "We have a different request — a one-time deal. This girl? Her fate is pending."

Ajay raised an eyebrow. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised by what I know." Gemma's smile was broad and alluring. "Her soul is currently up for grabs. She's done some terrible things, but she's not beyond redemption. She could go either way. Up or down. And you should know… some demons would pay handsomely for an untarnished soul. Now, Daisy here is by no means Snow White, but she's the closest we can get without attracting too much attention."

"And discretion is the better part of valor," Ajay replied, looking Daisy up and down, appraising her. After decades of experience smuggling souls into and out of the afterlife, he could appreciate her value. Souls were precious. With the right demon, he could secure a substantial reward for the girl — enough to repay the Stynes and still receive an extra bonus for himself. He licked his lips. "What is it you want?"

"We require an exchange. Her soul for Jacob, our cousin," Dario said, his tone borderline disinterested. He had no love for his cousin, although he could appreciate Jacob's savagery. Unfortunately, they never had a chance to bond over it while Jacob had been alive, but maybe that would change this time around.

Ajay narrowed his eyes. "Must I repeat myself? No reincarnations."

"Not a reincarnation," Gemma assured him, locking her gaze onto his. "A resurrection, as vulgar as that sounds. Jacob has some… information we require. Like I said, it's a one-time deal — we won't subject any of our other relatives to such poor taste."

Resurrections brought to mind zombies, reanimated corpses, and their own experimentations… They were just too… ordinary. Offensive. Jacob would find himself at the bottom of the family hierarchy for this, which would no doubt frustrate him, but it couldn't be helped. They _had_ to find the Book of the Damned, and he was their best lead — other than Elizabeth, but she had proven herself to be disloyal, treacherous, and better off dead. No sense bringing _her_ back to life.

Ajay hesitated, considering the offer. He gave Daisy another head-to-toe inspection, and there was no mistaking his admiration. Dario had been right to truss up the girl — it made her look irresistible. Gemma smirked, tasting victory.

"It's a good deal," she pushed. "Jacob will always be destined for hell. If he gets out, it's a temporary escape — not permanent. Hell has nothing to lose, and your demonic friends will be grateful to gain a treat like Daisy. It's a win-win."

Slowly, the reaper nodded, the last of his reservations melting away. "Very well. I'll need a day to locate Jacob's remains and retrieve his soul, but you'll have to pay me upfront."

"Done," Gemma said, holding out her hand. Ajay stepped forward, shaking it firmly with his own, and just like that, the woman transferred ownership of the girl over to the reaper. Daisy awoke from her trance, blinking frantically. Her whimpers grew in terror — she reflexively yanked on her restraints, which only inflamed her injury, making her scream through her gag. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed, landing hard on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. Dario would be sad to see her go.

Ajay chuckled, reaching down to grasp the girl's hair. He dragged her a few steps back, heedless of her kicking legs, and gave the Stynes a friendly salute. "I'll see you soon." And with that, he disappeared, taking the poor girl with him.

"It's a shame," Dario said, staring at the spot where Daisy had vanished. "I would have liked to keep her. I hope Jacob's worth it."

Gemma scoffed, shooting him a death glare before turning back to the limousine.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	7. Misgivings

**Some gore in this one guys - be warned!**

 **SPN**

 _Candles burned in their sconces, casting ominous shadows across the flagstone floor of the abandoned convent. Darkness filled the room, seeping in from the night beyond the stained-glass windows. The saints glared down, their smiles twisted and grotesque instead of sacred and comforting. The floor was littered with debris and dirt; chains hung from the sides of the altar opposite a dark stain that permanently marred the floor._

 _A single voice murmured, its echo a droning hum that filled the chapel._

 _Sam found himself stuck as an observer. He was dreaming, and he could not move — a fly on the wall, able to witness everything without participating. Dread filled his unconscious mind: over the past two years, he had countless dreams of the chapel at St. Mary's Convent. Most were nightmarish memories — he'd relived Dean's near death over and over — he'd felt the life fall from Jacob's body when Benny killed him. The dreams weren't always the same, but this… this one was new._

 _The murmuring grew louder, the candles briefly flaring as a man walked in. He was tall and olive-skinned with a strong, resolute face and dark, focused eyes. A long black cloak swathed around him, a simple wooden box clasped in his hands. It was wide and narrow, unadorned with any kind of decoration, but something about it sent Sam's trepidation skyrocketing and, had it been real, his nerves would've turned to ice._

 _Instead of crossing all the way up to the altar, the man paused in the middle of the room, standing above the black stain on the floor. Almost reverently, he knelt before the mark, placing the wooden box down carefully. His chanting continued, the language indecipherable. Sam watched as the cloaked man pulled the lid off the box and set it aside. He leaned forwards, touching the stain with the palm of his hand. His voice shifted from a chant to an incantation, and Sam watched in horror as the stain flashed with an eerie blue light._

 _Moments later, the light blinked out, and the stain was gone; in its place was a fresh pool of blood. The man quickly yanked his hand back, but it was already covered in the red substance. He flicked his fingers, spattering as much of it onto the floor as he could._

 _Sam prayed to wake up; he didn't want to see the rest. He tried to rouse himself, but it was like the dream wanted him to watch._

 _Oblivious to his spectator, the man picked up the box, tipping its contents straight into the pool of blood. It looked like… ash._

 _What the hell?_

 _If possible, Sam would have shivered, unable to fathom what was happening, but aware of its atrocity._

 _"_ _Torzu niiso vgeg tolocvovim esiasch," the man intoned again, repeating the same phrase over and over again. The candles around the room shot up, the flames like jets, disturbing the shadows._

 _Sam stared, fascinated but terrified, as the blood began to undulate, like a wave, slowly at first, but with mounting urgency. The ash — was it ash? — began to spread through the blood, congealing as it swayed. The puddle shrank, moving inwards and rising up in a column. The man stood along with it, still chanting, brow furrowed in concentration._

Wake up, _Sam urged himself._ I don't want to be here!

 _Something awful was coming… something he knew he didn't want to face._

 _When the bloody, gritty column reached its full height, just over six feet tall, it began swelling… convulsing and bubbling… wriggling from the inside out, as if packed with snakes, each one slithering beneath the surface. The putrid bubbles popped, spewing droplets of blood over the floor. Some splattered onto the cloaked man, but he paid it no heed._

 _Slowly, moment by moment, the column grew appendages: one on either side of the trunk and two at the base. Meanwhile, the apex began rounding itself into a head, and Sam couldn't help but recognize the shape. It sickened him, and he fought back, unable to accept the obvious._

 _It couldn't be. It wasn't._

 _The shape grew more intricate, the appendages defining themselves, adding hands, fingers, feet, ears… A bubbling roar, like that of a wounded animal, thundered from the freshly-formed mouth, drowning out the man's chanting._

Wake up!

 _Sam tried to flee, heart pounding, but could not escape. There was something painfully familiar about that roar._

 _The grotesque_ thing _reached its hands up to clutch its head. It dropped to its knees, convulsing and howling. The ash sank into the blood, disappearing beneath the surface, and gradually, the coiling, slithering activity began to abate, stabilizing into a solid figure. A person, hunched over, covered in a thick blanket of blood, shouting as if in agony._

 _When the cloaked summoner reached the end of his chant, he knelt down across from the wretched thing and patiently waited for him to collect himself. "Take your time. There's no rush."_

 _Abruptly, the shouting ceased, and the newly-crafted man raised his blood-soaked head to glare at his predecessor with two cold, ice-blue eyes._

 _Eyes that Sam had seen before; eyes that he knew all too well._

 _No…_

 _This wasn't real._

 _Couldn't be real._

 _Jacob's hand shot out and grabbed the man by his cloak, pulling him close. Blood stained his teeth, dripping from his mouth as he snarled, "What did you do with my brother?!"_

 **SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota… January 3, 2008)**

Sam woke with a start, swallowing his scream before it could manifest. He was safe in Bobby's guest room, it was still dark outside, and he didn't need all the mothering that came whenever he cried out in his sleep. He slowly sat up, bending his knees beneath the blanket while resting his head in his hands. He had to focus on breathing so he could calm his racing heart. Through the darkness, he peered over at the other bed, where Dean lay visible in the slivers of moonlight that penetrated the thin curtains. Still asleep. Sam had not disturbed him.

 _It was just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. Jacob's dead. We burned his body._

He silently spoke the mantra to himself again and again. _Just a dream…_ Nothing unusual about that. Sam had nightmares all the time. True, some _were_ premonitions, but they always foreshadowed impending disasters. Jacob…

Jacob was already dead. They burned his body. It _couldn't_ be a premonition because Jacob _couldn't_ come back. That part of Sam's life was over. He didn't know why his mind had conjured the nightmare, but that's all it was. A nightmare. A figment of his imagination. No sense dwelling on it.

He reached for his cell phone on the bedside table and checked the time. 4:08am. He could still try going back to sleep, or he could get up. Was anyone else awake? Sam reached out with his mind, scoping out the house. Bobby was asleep in his room and John was downstairs. Sam concentrated on his dad. He was in the living room, his aura calm, asleep on the sofa where he'd spent the last few days. If Sam was going to get up, then he would have to sneak through the living room.

 _"_ _Sometimes I think we'd all be better off without your abilities."_

Sam's jaw clenched at the memory. It had been nearly a week, and he was still reeling from John's hurtful words. Dean had naturally tried apologizing on his behalf, but John showed no remorse — he never did when he thought he was right about something. And that made it all so much worse. His dad honestly thought he was right — that they would be better off if Sam was not a psychic. A freak. An unholy 'vessel' for a fallen angel. It was hard enough coping with his so-called 'destiny'… How was he supposed to forge his own path in the world when his own father doubted him? It stung more than Sam cared to admit, and so he did everything he could to avoid John's presence.

Meanwhile, Dean did everything he could to build a bridge between them, but Sam would not give in. Not this time. Upsetting his brother sucked, but a line had been crossed, and Sam couldn't just get over it. Not when his dad all but called him cursed.

Shoving back the covers, Sam hauled himself out of bed and silently padded across the room, sidestepping the floorboards that squeaked. He made his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He flipped up the lightswitch and glanced at the mirror — the dark shadows under his eyes brought a hollow look to his complexion. No one had slept well over the past week. Turning away, Sam sat on the edge of the bath, next to the sink, so he could start unwinding the bandages on his wrists. The dexterity in his fingers had greatly improved, but he still had a weak grip. It took him a couple of tries to undo the bandage on his left wrist. The material fell away slowly, exposing the long thin scar, a purple blight on his otherwise tan skin. The stitches were neat and clean; they were ready to come out, but he would need his brother for that. Carefully, he unwrapped his right wrist, dumping both bandages in the trash can. He flexed his hands experimentally, watching the tendons in his wrists move, relieved to feel significantly less pain. At this rate, he would make a full recovery.

Good… Sam would hate having to explain his injury to Cyrus. The kid just turned ten a few weeks ago. He was adapting to life in Vermont, where Rufus Turner had opened his home, and things were going well. He was no longer trapped in the Stynes' shadow, he was gaining confidence, and he was happy. Sam didn't want to spoil that with news of his near-death experience. Cyrus deserved better. Once the stitches were out, and once the Carrigans were neutralized, then Sam would consider telling his young friend.

But he had to do something about the two sadistic gods. They were still out there — still a threat. They no longer lived in Michigan — their house had been abandoned — but that only made them more dangerous… As long as they were unaccounted for, they had the advantage, and considering their abilities, that was a frightening thought. Sam would not rest well until they were put out of their misery, and he would see it through, with or without his family's help.

Finishing up in the bathroom, Sam made his way silently downstairs, taking even more care to remain stealthy. The last thing he wanted was for John to stir. Thankfully, he had more than enough moonlight creeping in through the windows to navigate the old house. He'd spent much of his youth in Bobby's care; the Salvage Yard was more of a home to him than anywhere else, and he knew the place like the back of his hand.

He crept through the living room, keeping an eye on his father, constantly reading him, growing more confident with each step that John would not awake. When he reached the kitchen, Sam slipped through the basement door and fumbled for the lightswitch. The bulb was dim and dingy, but he still squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for them to adjust. Then, he ventured down into the cavernous space below.

The basement was a mess: Bobby's living room looked clean by comparison. It contained everything from normal items _—_ boxes of books, baseball gear, and paint cans _—_ to a hunter's treasure trove _—_ a mass of weapons, lore books, and various spell ingredients. Sometimes, Sam wondered how the infamous Men of Letters could possibly have more occult artifacts than Bobby.

He drifted towards an area on the side of the room where Bobby was planning to build… something. It had less clutter than the rest of the basement, but wasn't nearly clean enough for the project to commence. Sam still didn't know what the project was, but he had glimpsed the excitement in Bobby's eyes whenever they were down here.

In his effort to avoid his dad, Sam had been spending more time with Bobby, mostly by sitting on the basement stairs while the old hunter went about reorganizing. Sometimes they would chat, and sometimes they passed the time in companionable silence. Much like Dean and Cyrus, Bobby saw Sam for who he was, and he always knew when to listen, and when to give advice. Sam couldn't ask for a better ally whenever he felt… smothered by his dad.

Of course, that just meant tension was high everywhere, and not solely between father and son. Bobby had always been protective of the boys, and when Dean told him about the argument, it took all the discipline he had not to lambaste John. After all, he didn't want to make the situation worse, as much as John deserved getting chewed out. Besides, Bobby had the decency to let Sam fight his own battles.

Which was more than he could say about his dad.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Sam walked over to Bobby's project site. A huge work unit stood against the wall, covered in various sundry items, with several open crates on the floor next to it. Rolling up his sleeves, Sam picked up an empty crate, ignoring the pain that flared through his forearms, and dumped it on the work surface of the sideboard. Gritting his teeth, he glanced down at his scars in frustration. They made it so difficult to perform the simplest tasks. It sucked. But he had to push through it — he had to get his strength back.

Collecting a pile of old newspapers, Sam focused on packing up the more delicate items. They were easier to handle. He worked in silence, letting the mundane nature of the chore clear out his mind as he tried to forget the gruesome details of his latest nightmare.

 **SPN**

It was still dark outside, well before dawn, when John's vibrating phone stirred him from sleep. He blinked his eyes open and sat up stiffly on Bobby's sofa. Who was calling him at this hour? He reached into his pocket and fished out the offensive device, checking the caller ID. Ellen Harvelle. His chest tightened as a wave of guilt threatened to shake his composure. Ellen had done so much for his children. She had been there for them when Sam was kidnapped, and risked her life to help rescue the boy. Consequently, the Stynes launched an attack on the Roadhouse, burning it to the ground, and they barely escaped with their lives. Thankfully, Ellen was a resilient woman and had spent the last two years rebuilding, but John would never be able to repay her.

Answering the phone was the least he could do. "Ellen?"

"John!" she exclaimed with a mixture of surprise and relief _—_ after all, he wasn't known for his accessibility. "Thank God you answered!"

He grunted, well-aware of his reputation. But in this case, he was between hunts and available for calls. "What's wrong?" he asked, getting straight to business.

Ellen sighed and her tone grew somber. "You wouldn't happen to know a fellow by the name of Gordon Walker?"

 _Gordon…_

John stiffened, picturing the smug, arrogant son of a bitch who called Sam a freak and a monster. "Unfortunately," he growled, resent curdling within him.

The disdain in his voice made Ellen chuckle, albeit mirthlessly. "Yeah, can't say I care much for him myself. He used to frequent the Roadhouse — had a real bad influence on Jo."

In other words, he glamorized hunting. Unlike John, Ellen had the luxury of sheltering her daughter from the supernatural, and she did everything she could to discourage Jo from throwing her life away. But Gordon was the kind of man who enjoyed the job. John could easily see him regaling an impressionable teenage girl with stories of his adventures. The bastard. "What about him?" he asked, wondering what kind of trouble Gordon might be causing.

"He's dead," Ellen replied, catching John off guard. Hunting was certainly dangerous, but Gordon was still young and sharp. He learned from the best, and while he could be reckless at times, he was by no means an idiot. Of all the hunters to die early, it should not have been Gordon. "I heard from Kubrick," Ellen continued. "Looks like demons."

John took a deep, slow breath, processing the information. Demons. He was always on the lookout for demons. They were responsible for Mary's death, and they had an unhealthy interest in Sam. John would go out of his way to fight the evil sons of bitches, especially if it meant tracking down their yellow-eyed leader. Azazel. He finally had a weapon that would potentially kill the demon — an angel blade courtesy of Cuthbert Sinclair — but it wouldn't do him much good unless he could find the elusive bastard.

Despite the issues John had with Gordon, he did not deserve to be killed by demons. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Jo's taking it hard," Ellen explained. "She's threatening to run off and take the case herself if I don't come up with some answers." John winced on Ellen's behalf. She had already lost her husband to hunting _—_ John would never forgive himself for that _—_ and nothing scared her more than losing Jo. "I can't do this," she said brokenly. "They're not just monsters, John, they're demons! The way they killed Gordon…" She trailed off, and John's imagination supplied the rest. Another reminder why he had to keep the boys safe from these particular enemies.

"Tell Jo I'll look into it," he said decisively, hoping it would be enough to satisfy the girl, keeping her from acting rashly. "What can you tell me about the demons? Why would they target Gordon?"

"No idea!" she replied, obviously at a loss. "That's the mystery. Gordon's never had anything to do with demons. Although… Kubrick said they trashed his place. Maybe they were looking for something?"

It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. If Gordon stumbled upon something the demons wanted — which could be anything — it might explain their behavior. Great. The last thing John needed were demons in possession of an unknown asset. "Text me the location," he said grimly. "I won't be long."

"I can't thank you enough for this," she told him earnestly. "I can't lose Jo."

"It won't come to that," he replied. "I'll be in touch."

Ending the call, he climbed to his feet and trudged over to Bobby's desk. He scavenged around for a sheet of scrap paper and quickly wrote Dean a note.

 _'_ _Out on a hunt. Stay put till I get back.'_

Sam wasn't ready to travel, much less fight, and John couldn't afford to worry about his children when he had a job to do. Folding the sheet in half, he wrote Dean's name on the front flap and tore off a piece of tape. He proceeded to the kitchen where he stuck the note to the coffee pot, ensuring that someone would find it. A part of him wanted to wake the boys, to say goodbye in person, but time was short, and he didn't have the patience for an argument. Sam might be giving him the silent treatment, but if he mentioned demons, the kid would demand to help. He shared John's eagerness to find and kill Azazel, and he always jumped on opportunities to seek out new leads, no matter the risk. It was understandable, but dangerous, especially now. Sam was still recovering, which made him a liability, and John had no choice but to leave him behind.

It was for the best. And maybe — just maybe — it would give Sam the breathing space he needed to cool off, so they could reconcile when John returned. The sooner they put this damn squabble behind them, the better.

Dean would understand. He always did.

And so, John gathered up his luggage and hauled it out to his truck. He left quickly, without a word to anyone, and tried to ignore the strange misgivings that were creeping up inside of him.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	8. The Return

**Time for our favorite antagonist...enjoy!**

 **SPN**

 **(St. Mary's Convent, Ilchester, Maryland… January 3, 2008)**

"Where is my brother?!" Jacob roared, his thoughts hazy as he latched onto the figure before him, only to be shoved off. The strange man, cloaked in black, did not respond — his cold, dark eyes offered little sympathy. Instead, he reached over and clamped his heavy hand on Jacob's bare, bloody shoulder, subduing him before he had the chance to defend himself.

Jacob reeled back as time constricted around him, stars exploding in his eyes — it felt like a vacuum had pulled him in, sucking the air from his lungs and compressing his limbs. It was agony! But he couldn't make a sound.

Time stopped.

Suddenly, he crashed onto his hands and knees, his face inches away from a pristine marble floor. He gasped, sucking in a lungful of air, his heart fluttering erratically.

"About time, Ajay," growled a male voice, both harsh and refined, but Jacob couldn't muster the strength to lift his head. He stayed prone on the floor, shivering — the blood enveloping his naked body did nothing against the cold.

"My apologies," Jacob's captor — Ajay — cordially replied, releasing his shoulder. "Such rituals require patience."

Jacob blinked blood from his eyes, turning his gaze upwards by sheer force of will. He was disoriented and nauseous… his limbs trembled beneath him. Pathetic… He had never felt so weak in his life! And to make matters worse, he had no idea where he was, or what the hell happened to him. The blood covering him was still wet, and something reeked of burning flesh… Why? Where had he been? Where was…?

He slowly turned his head, catching sight of Ajay's cohort — a tall blond man with a sneer on his stony face. Dressed in a tailored three-piece suit, with polished Italian Oxford shoes, he was clearly a man of power and prestige, and the way he looked down at Jacob left him feeling… odd. He couldn't quite put a name to it.

"I didn't realize this would be so… messy," the man remarked, his tone colored with revulsion.

 _Inferiority._

Rage flared through Jacob, and he snarled, anxious to rip out the condescending bastard's throat. But he couldn't move — his arms were buckling, and it took all his focus not to collapse.

Meanwhile, Ajay shrugged. "He's alive, as promised, so… if you don't need anything else, I'd like to be on my way."

The man nodded and the lights flickered as Jacob's escort vanished.

Suddenly alone with a disdainful, potentially hostile stranger — and conscious of his own vulnerability — Jacob clenched his teeth. Now was not the time to flounder. He steeled his arms, tensing his muscles to keep from shaking, and he made himself sit up.

The stranger watched him through narrowed eyes, appraising him. "Hello, cousin," he eventually said, his voice cold and critical.

 _Cousin?_

Jacob could feel the vacancy on his face and scrambled to mask it with indifference. _What's the matter with you, boy? You know better than to show such weakness!_

"Dario? Is he here?" a woman called, catching both men's attention while triggering Jacob's memory. _Dario… Victor. Mortimer. Charlotte. Gemma. William. Caroline. Lilibet._

The names and faces of his relatives began rolling through his mind like ticker tape, quickly landing on one: a terrified boy who gazed up at him, pleading with his young, soulful eyes.

 _Sam._

It was a face he savored — cherished. Jacob's heart ached and yet he couldn't quite fathom why… If his cousins were here, his little brother couldn't be far. Jacob's eyes roved past Dario at the sound of footsteps clinking on the marble. Sam? No… Just the woman. Gemma. She appeared out from behind a grand staircase, her long blonde hair scooped up in a bun. When she saw Jacob, her expression hardened in disgust.

"Unbelievable!" she scowled. "There's blood everywhere! The nerve of that damn reaper."

Dario rolled his eyes and waved his hand, motioning for Jacob to get up. He did so, pushing himself to his feet, painfully aware of how… frail he felt. Not to mention exposed: he was naked and weaponless in a strange house. It made no sense. What the hell happened to him? When did he become so… weak?

"Come along," Dario said, turning to the staircase. "You better clean yourself up."

"Can you imagine if we had carpet?" Gemma grumbled. "It'd be ruined."

Jacob felt another surge of anger. He wasn't a dog for her to revile. But he said nothing as he followed his cousin up the marble stairs, a trail of blood in his wake. His energy was better spent trying to orient himself. He was back with his family — that much was obvious — but what did it mean? Where was he back _from_? Where the hell had he been? And where was…? Where was Sam? He was so confused… and his memories were fleeting. It pissed him off.

The landing at the top of the stairs branched into opposite wings of a stately mansion. Dario led Jacob into the left wing, down a long corridor and past several closed doors. Eventually, they came to a room at the far end, and Dario turned to regard Jacob with a curled lip. "You have a lot to answer for, so make yourself presentable, and try not to keep us waiting."

Jacob bristled, but held his tongue. For now. He stormed past his cousin, entering a modest-sized bedroom compared to the rest of the house. It had pale grey walls, crown molding, and a bay window with a cushioned seat. The bed took prominence, featuring an upholstered headboard with a warm green coverlet and several white pillows. Someone had left out a spare set of clothes, but first Jacob had to shower.

Still dripping blood on the marble floor, he proceeded into the attached bathroom. What did he have to answer for? He couldn't remember… All he knew was that everything felt wrong and he had to find his brother.

 **SPN**

Thirty minutes later, Jacob emerged from the bedroom, scrubbed clean, dressed in a white button-up shirt with a gray cashmere sweater pulled over it, along with black trousers and matching shoes. The clothes did not fit well; they were too loose. At first, Jacob assumed his cousins misjudged his size, but no… The clothes weren't the problem. He was. He could feel it. Somehow, he was physically smaller than before. Weaker.

Seriously, what the hell had happened to him?

He tried jogging his memory in the shower, but there was… nothing. Just a huge black hole before he found himself writhing in agony at Ajay's feet. Gemma mentioned a reaper. Did that mean…?

Son of a bitch. Where was Sam?

Jacob couldn't remember when he'd last seen the boy, and the thought greatly disturbed him. Sam was out there somewhere. He _had_ to be. Alone. Unprotected. There was still so much Jacob had to teach him. He wasn't ready to fend for himself. He _needed_ Jacob, and Jacob _had_ to find him.

"Jacob."

The call broke him from his reverie and he glanced around to see Gemma walking towards him, a soft smile on her face. When she made it up to him, she squeezed his arm and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Now that's more like it."

"Gemma," he returned, surprised at the raspiness of his own voice. He swallowed, clearing his throat. "Where's my brother?"

Gemma frowned. "Come, we have matters to discuss." She turned, linking her arm with his, and led him down the hall. Thankfully, he managed to keep from leaning on her — he could not let her grasp the full extent of his infirmity. It was shameful.

As they retraced their steps, Jacob noticed the lack of blood on the marble floor. The Stynes were nothing if not tidy, and they always took care to clean up after themselves. He glanced around the wide corridor, observing every detail. The ornate door frames. The pilasters along the walls. The barrel-vaulted ceiling. It certainly felt like a Styne residence. "Where are we?" he asked as they reached the grand staircase.

"Take your time," Gemma cautioned, aware of his frailty despite his best efforts. They did not rush their descent. "We're in Shreveport. Your old house was… unavailable. So Father found us a new home."

Jacob eyed her suspiciously. "Why here?"

"Monroe had faithful subjects here, and it's high-time we resumed our operations on this wretched continent. America's so chaotic, we can't keep letting opportunities go to waste."

Jacob stopped, forcing Gemma to turn and look up at him.

"America's business belongs to me. Mortimer belongs in Switzerland."

Gemma sighed, almost sympathetically, but she couldn't keep the impatience from her eyes. "Jacob, you've been dead… for nearly two years. The only other Styne in America is a minor — who happens to be missing, I might add. At this point, Father is well within his rights to assume control."

Jacob gawked at her. Two years?

Wait a minute… Sam wasn't a minor. "Who's missing?" he asked.

"Your brother," Dario said, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. "Cyrus. Who else?"

Jacob froze, both flustered and annoyed. Somehow, Cyrus had completely slipped his mind — not surprising. His memories were still hit or miss, and to be honest, he and Cyrus weren't exactly close. It had been two years. Cyrus would be ten by now, which made Jacob a few months shy of thirty-three. With such an age gap, they had little to bond over. Except…

"I'm sorry," Gemma said, averting her eyes, mistaking Jacob's silence for grief. "I spoke out of turn. I didn't mean to break the news so tactlessly."

Jacob shook his head. "Cy's not missing. He's with Sam."

Dario raised an eyebrow. "Winchester? Well, in that case, he's probably dead."

Jacob's temper flared, and he gave his cousin a look that would have petrified most men. "Sam is one of us! He would protect Cy with his life!"

Dario scoffed, obviously skeptical. "I'm not the one you have to convince, Jacob. Come with me. Our uncle is waiting."

Jacob clenched his fists. Dario had no authority to command him. They were both first-generation Stynes — Dario had no seniority over Jacob and his presumption was irritating.

But Mortimer was officially the patriarch, and Jacob would be a fool to try his patience. He continued the rest of the way down the stairs and followed Dario into a lounge off the side of the entry hall. It was a comfortable room with deep white sofas and a broad mantel over the fireplace, and yet, Jacob felt strangely ill at ease when he walked in.

His aunt and uncle, Charlotte and Mortimer Styne, were sitting together on a sofa alongside a coffee table. While Mortimer drank from a steaming goblet, Charlotte was leaning over the table, her hands on the planchette of a _Ouija_ board, her eyes closed in concentration. Jacob, Dario, and Gemma all stood at attention, waiting to be acknowledged, knowing better than to interrupt.

The spirits, however, must not have been active, for the planchette was currently motionless. Charlotte sighed, sitting back in disappointment, but then she noticed Jacob and her face lit up. She rose smoothly to her feet and walked around the table, approaching Jacob like a benevolent queen.

"Welcome home, _älskling_ ," she said, kissing him lightly on each cheek.

"I've missed you, Aunt Charlotte," he replied automatically, giving her a warm smile, masking the headache he could already feel pounding behind his eyes. While Gemma and Dario took their seats in the armchairs around the sofa, Charlotte ushered Jacob to stand opposite Mortimer. He gave his uncle a respectful nod. "Sir."

"Jacob…" Mortimer studied him for a long moment, then stood up and reached across the table for Jacob's hand. They shook firmly, a sign of mutual acceptance that failed to reflect Jacob's underlying emotions. Honestly, he despised his uncle as much as he despised Victor. But thankfully, no one seemed to notice.

"I'm glad to see you," Mortimer said, settling back down on the sofa. Charlotte joined him, leaving Jacob to stand by himself at the center of attention. "I realize you have questions, but I'm sure you understand that ours take priority."

"Yes, sir," Jacob dutifully replied, keeping his tone civil.

"Excellent," Mortimer said with a cold, dispassionate smile. "Before we begin, I should like to stress the importance of your… precision. I expect you to remain specific and concise." He didn't wait for Jacob to respond. "Now. You've been informed of your recently 'deceased' status. Tell me, what is the last thing you remember?"

It should've been a simple question, but Jacob was still at a loss. "I—" His mouth opened and closed, a deep frown marring his forehead. He searched through the darkness of his mind, eyes widening when flashes of memories finally surfaced, accompanied by echoing screams.

 _Blood. Agony._

 _Victor's sneering face hovering over him, laughing, savoring his screams as the blade tore through his flesh._

"Well?" Dario prodded, snapping Jacob from his vision.

He glanced from his impatient cousin back to his uncle. "Hell, sir…" He ran his parched tongue over his dry lips. "I remember Hell."

Mortimer rolled his eyes. "Well, of course. That's where we go. We finish here, go there, perform and come back. I'm interested in the cause of your death, son, not your damn afterlife."

 _Go there, perform and come back._

He said it so… nonchalantly. Jacob had always known the Stynes were destined for Hell, but he never fully grasped the implications. A lesser man would have shuddered, but Jacob had to contain his distress. He had to save face. Otherwise, his next response could be his last. "I apologize, sir. My memories are still hazy."

His hackles rose at the disgust spreading on their faces. He was nothing to them. A disease. But that was their mistake. So help him, one way or another, they would learn not to underestimate his strength. He had just returned from Hell. He was not going back — not anytime soon.

After a pause, Charlotte rose to her feet. "Allow me." Circling the table, she made her way over to Jacob and reached up her hands. He instinctively caught her wrists, self-preservation overriding due deference, which only made her smile.

"Jacob," Mortimer growled, less than amused, while Dario sprang from his seat, ready to punish Jacob for his insolence.

"It's all right," Charlotte assured them. Jacob might be out of line, but at least Hell didn't break him. She could respect that. "Calm down, _älskling_ ," she told her nephew. "I've no desire to harm you."

Jacob glared at her, silently gauging her sincerity… but they would not have gone through the trouble of resurrecting him if they didn't need him for something. They weren't going to kill him. At least not yet. He relaxed his grip, allowing her to shake her arms free and resume her task. She reached up her hands to grasp either side of his head. They stared at each other, Jacob in suspicion, Charlotte in concentration. Then, she began to whisper an incantation.

Jacob gasped in pain, holding himself still when his body threatened to reel back. It felt like she had jammed several hot needles in his skull, extracting an assortment of images, tangled together, all vying for immediate attention.

 _A gas station… Sam standing tall and defiant between him and a nameless woman._

 _"_ _With a proper upbringing, he would have made an impressive Man of Letters. It's almost a shame."_

 _"_ _You're not going to win this fight, so why bother getting hurt? Stand down."_

 _"_ _Go screw yourself!"_

 _Sam's defiance cut short when Jacob planted his hand over his captive's mouth. The defiant glare tinged with fear that burned up at him…_

 _"_ _Nice try, little brother. A for effort."_

 _Jacob relishing Sam's miserable whimper as he manhandled the boy back into the examination chair…_

 _Sam standing next to Jessica, a look of genuine gratitude on his face. "Thank you."_

 _"_ _JACOB!" Sam's scream as the Winchesters dragged him away, towards the portal, while Jacob lay bound and helpless on the ground…_

 _"_ _You'll do everything I want regardless of Dean's fate. It's just a matter of time."_

 _Their minds joining together, suspended in psychic euphoria as they let each other in, fully, for the first time…_

 _"_ _Oh, Sammy, you're just full of surprises aren't you? I love it!"_

 _The pair of them merging together in one body, finally complete, two parts of a perfect whole…_

Jacob staggered away from Charlotte's touch, stumbling against an armchair, collapsing into it. He held his head in one hand, squeezing his eyes shut as he attempted to control the surge of memories.

"Give him a moment."

Jacob barely heard Charlotte's voice over the din in his head. What the hell had she done? His Aunt Caroline — Charlotte's sister — had been the real witch of the family; she would have controlled the spell, unlocking specific memories, but Charlotte… she had none of Caroline's finesse and the result was a chaotic mental onslaught.

Charlotte's poor technique, however, was no excuse for Jacob's persisting weakness. As he sat there, reeling from the intensity of his own memories, he became painfully aware of each passing minute. Damn. This was not helping his reputation.

"Well?" Mortimer barked, signaling the end of Jacob's reprieve.

He schooled his face and climbed back to his feet. Standing at attention, he met his uncle's gaze. "I was killed by a vampire. Benny Something-or-Other. A buddy of the Winchesters, if you can believe it."

"A vampire?!" Dario exclaimed incredulously. "How does a vampire manage to kill a fully enhanced Styne?"

"He wasn't alone," Jacob bit out, struggling to keep his temper in check.

Mortimer scoffed, clearly impatient. "Well, don't keep us in suspense, boy! Explain yourself."

He was on thin ice, and judging by his family's contempt, he could fall through at any moment. Needless to say, it would not be wise to confess the truth — that Sam had used his powers against him. That Sam, astral projecting, had not only managed to possess him but had held him still long enough for the vampire to cut off his head. The betrayal should have left Jacob furious. In a moment of pure, unbridled intimacy, when their bond should have prevailed, Sam chose Dean instead. Such a slight should be unforgivable. But Jacob…

He couldn't shake it. He craved the boy… as if he had a void growing inside him that only Sam could fill. Fate was giving them a second chance. He could not fail again.

"We were in a convent," he said at last, organizing his thoughts. "Lilibet — Elizabeth — was preparing a spell from the Book of the Damned." Jacob noticed Charlotte's ears pricking up at the mention of the book. Interesting. "From what I understand, she made a deal with the demon, Azazel. She would kickstart the apocalypse in return for Doc Benton."

"The apocalypse!" Gemma interrupted, her face brightening. She glanced over at Dario. "Now _that_ … that sounds like fun."

Mortimer shot her a warning look before motioning Jacob to continue.

He chose his next words carefully. "Lilibet lost control — made a fool of herself — got herself killed. I was left with the vampire and Dean Winchester. We fought. I died. End of story."

It was all they needed to know. And hopefully, accusing Lilibet of incompetence would earn him some leniency. The Book of the Damned required the utmost expertise. It wouldn't surprise anyone to hear that Lilibet screwed up, and if she did, his family couldn't hold their defeat against Jacob. They would blame Lilibet instead. As it should be, regardless of the truth. Lilibet was a bitch. She knew how Jacob felt about Sam, and yet, she still tried springing the devil from the pit. If Lucifer walked the earth, he would claim Sam for himself, and Jacob would not lose his little brother to the fallen angel. No matter how much he once loved Lilibet, he felt no guilt slandering her.

She should have left Sam alone.

Presently, Mortimer set his goblet on the coffee table and leaned forward, glaring at Jacob with his cold, probing eyes. "Are you telling me that _our_ Book of the Damned and the compass we need to find it were last seen by Dean Winchester and a wretched vampire?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Jacob replied, starting to comprehend his resurrection. They were looking for the family spell book, and they brought him back for answers. Of course. They didn't care about him. They would have left him to burn if not for the information he possessed.

He meant nothing.

No, _they_ meant nothing. They were not his family. Not really. Not anymore. _Sam_ was his family. Sam and Cyrus. He had to find his way back to them; they'd spent two years without his protection, his guidance. Two years under Dean's influence… Sam was no doubt reverting back into a reckless, defiant do-gooder, and of course Cyrus would follow his example. Jacob's work had been undone, and he would have to start all over.

Unconsciously, he licked his lips. Was that such a bad thing? Breaking Sam the first time had been a thrill. How many opportunities would he get to do it again?

"In that case," Mortimer's grumbling snapped Jacob from his reverie. "We ought to have a... _chat_ with Dean Winchester. He's a hunter. I doubt he'd trust the book with a vampire, no matter how friendly."

Easier said than done.

"That may be difficult, sir," Jacob interjected, keeping the contempt from his voice. "The Winchesters are skilled at hiding themselves. We were never able to find 'em with locator spells. I'm guessing they used mojo bags, or something, for concealment. Now, they might think we're all dead, but they still have demons after them, and they can't afford to expose themselves. I reckon they'll be hard to track — Cyrus included."

Dario scowled. "How about, instead of creating problems, you come up with solutions?"

Jacob had to bite his tongue. Two years ago, he would have happily put his cousin in his place, but things were different now. He could feel it. For the first time since childhood, Jacob had a lapse in strength, and there could only be one explanation: Ajay, the reaper, had brought him back as a normal human. No enhancements. He was back to his default settings, and that made him vulnerable. Without enhancements, he barely qualified as a member of the family, and he was certainly no match for Dario. But what if…?

Jacob caught his breath, an idea sprouting in his mind. He smirked.

"Jacob?" his uncle asked expectantly, observing the change in his attitude.

Jacob bowed his head, feigning reverence for the patriarch. "With your permission, sir…" He glanced up, brazenly, to meet Mortimer's gaze. "I would like to make a suggestion."

"I'm all ears."

"The best way to find Dean — and Cyrus, too — is to find Sam."

Mortimer frowned, eyes glinting with malice. "Sam. You mean the _whelp_ who murdered my son." The slight would not be quickly forgiven. If Jacob wanted to protect his little brother, he had to proceed with caution.

"Sam and I spent a lot of time together," he explained. "I got to know him. Intimately. I don't need a locator spell to find him, sir. I simply need a few upgrades."

Dario scoffed. "Upgrades? You think you can waltz out of Hell and start making demands? You must be joking."

"That's enough, Dario!" Mortimer snapped, casting an impatient glare at his other nephew, much to Jacob's satisfaction. The young man closed his mouth and immediately sat down, cowed by the intensity of his uncle's displeasure. Still, a muscle in his jaw ticked, and Jacob sensed he had another rival on his hands, if not another enemy. Mortimer took a deep breath, collecting his composure, and focused back on Jacob. "A harvest would mean another delay. You're asking a lot, considering what we've already done for you."

Jacob held back his temper. They had done nothing for him! It was all for themselves. But Mortimer would not have chastised Dario if he was not willing to listen, so Jacob tried again. "I understand, and I appreciate your generosity. Please, sir… allow me to thank you properly by retrieving the Book of the Damned. I know what it means to our family. And regardless of your opinion of my actions, I _am_ the expert when it comes to the Winchesters."

Mortimer considered him silently, rubbing his temple with two fingers while searching him for signs of weakness or deceit. Jacob made sure to betray nothing.

After a long moment, Mortimer spoke, dragging his words out in a slow, deliberate challenge. "Tell me something, Jacob. What would you say if I asked you to 'thank me' by putting a bullet in Sam Winchester's head?"

Rage flared hot and visceral through Jacob's body, and it was all he could do to hold it in check. His nails sank into the palms of his hands as he struggled to remain calm.

"Dean is necessary to find the book," Mortimer continued. "But Sam is a cur. I should very much like to see him die."

"Have you killed Azazel, sir?" Jacob asked, suddenly grateful for the yellow-eyed demon. "As long as he's alive, then nothing has changed. Killing Sam would start a war." Mortimer sighed, rolling his eyes, but he couldn't argue with Jacob's logic. "Besides, Sam's abilities could prove useful. If you want to punish him for killing Victor, trust me, we can still make him suffer. All we have to do is kill someone _he_ loves. His daddy. Or Dean, perhaps, when we're done with him."

The idea brought a smile to Mortimer's lips, and he glanced thoughtfully at Charlotte. "I'm told he's a powerful psychic."

"Psychics can be managed," she replied, and Jacob breathed a silent sigh of relief. Things would have gotten… messy… if his uncle insisted on threatening Sam. But hopefully, he just bought himself the time he would need to devise a plan… a plan to pick up where he left off with his real family, away from these bastards.

"Very well," Mortimer said, rising from his seat and straightening his jacket. "I have much to consider. Charlotte, I require your counsel. Jacob, go get some rest. Gemma, Dario, leave us. I will call you when I've made my decision."

The dismissal made Jacob feel like an errant child, but the truth was, he could use the break. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and he had to keep his wits sharp around his family.

Gemma obediently kissed her parents on the cheeks and gave her cousins each a swift embrace before leaving the room, her heels clinking across the floor. Dario and Jacob followed suit, giving their aunt and uncle respectful nods on their way out.

Once they were back in the mansion's entry hall, Dario leaned in close to Jacob. "Watch your step, _cousin_." He then pushed past him and darted up the stairs, two at a time. Jacob scowled after him. Dario had forgotten who he was dealing with. Soon, Jacob would remind him of his place.

He would remind them all.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	9. Unfinished Business

**SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota… January 3, 2008)**

"Sam, would y'just—"

"Just WHAT, Dean?!" Sam whirled on his brother, his face full of anger. "I swear to god, if you say, 'calm down'..."

"Hey! I'm not the bad guy here!" Dean objected, his hands raised as he tried to rein in his own temper, but he was losing his grip on it, fast. "I didn't tell Dad to go and leave me the note!"

"I'm not… I'm not blaming _you_ ," Sam growled through clenched teeth, exhaling through his nose as he tried to claw back the anger coursing through him. Dean was right: it wasn't his fault.

It wasn't even the fact that John had left that upset Sam — he always left at some point. It was the way he went about it. Sam had been awake, working down in the basement; if John had bothered to check on his boys before bailing, he would've seen that Sam was out of bed. He would've said goodbye. Unless he was deliberately sneaking around.

"If he didn't want back-up, then it's not a big job," Dean said with a shrug, but that was wishful thinking, and they both knew it. More than likely, John was out there hunting the Carrigans, or the yellow-eyed demon. He didn't say goodbye because he wanted Sam to stay behind. He didn't trust him on such an important case — and because he didn't trust him, he couldn't take Dean either. After all, someone had to keep an eye on the psychic.

The thought made Sam fume.

Suddenly weary, he dropped down on Bobby's battered sofa and pushed his hair out of his face, resting his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. The silence weighed heavy for a moment, but then, with a sigh, Dean sat down beside him.

"Look, maybe it's for the best," he said, the sofa creaking as he tried to get comfortable. "You and Dad haven't said a word to each other in the past week — hell, it's bad enough when you're yelling at each other. I kinda think the silent treatment's worse."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, ashamed of himself. He knew he'd been hurting Dean and that was never his intention.

"Don't worry about me, man. This is about _you_. What's goin' on with you? _Really_?" Dean stressed the last word, prompting Sam to glance up at him properly. In Dean's eyes, he saw the same weariness that he felt: the ache that had settled into his bones. It was a fatigue born of a life on the run. Not from hunting — he knew how much Dean loved their work — but from constantly looking over their shoulders for signs of the demon. Or worse. In his brother's expression, Sam realized, maybe for the first time, how much of a burden he had become. Guilt rushed through him, bolstering his resolve.

He _needed_ to end this. He did. Not his dad.

Without really meaning to, Sam found himself opening up to his big brother. "I'm just… I'm sick of feeling like the screw-up all the time. Everything bad that comes our way happens because of me." He held up a hand, stopping Dean before he could interrupt. "It does, Dean — the Stynes, the demons… hell, even the damned Carrigans! I'm the one making our lives so damn complicated. I'm the one who should be out there fixing it."

"Okay, first of all, you shouldn't have to deal with any of that crap on your own — no one should," Dean pointed out, holding up one finger before holding up another. "Second, we're family: this is what we do."

"Dean, it's not your job to protect me."

"Course it is," he retorted, a gentle half-grin on his face. "What else am I supposed to do, if I'm not watching out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?"

His words had the desired effect and Sam found himself smiling and shaking his head.

"You're ridiculous, you know that, right?"

"Hey, it's always been that way. You know that." Dean shrugged, his easy smile turning somber. "Look, I know the stuff Dad said set you back on your heels, but, Sammy, you can't let it get to you. Your abilities… they're a part of who you are. I know that, you know it, and deep down, Dad knows it too."

Sam dropped his gaze, the shame burning inside him. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to know that he's got zero faith in you?"

"Yeah, I do," Dean whispered. It sent another pang of guilt through the younger Winchester. Of course he knew: how many times had he been blamed for accidents when they were kids? Sam hated that, no matter their age or experience, one word from John could make them both feel less than dirt. He loved his sons — of course he did — but sometimes Sam wondered if John ever realized the effect he had on their emotional well-being.

"Wouldn't you do anything to make up for your mistakes?" he asked quietly.

Dean sighed. "Sam…"

"Wouldn't you?" he pressed again, and Dean couldn't deny it. They knew each other too well, and Dean understood Sam's frustration.

"So what do you have in mind?" he asked reluctantly.

Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I wanna go after the Carrigans. Put right what happened," he admitted. "We know their strengths now, and their weaknesses. We might even catch them off guard. I mean, they probably think I'm dead. I lost a lot of blood. So they won't be expecting it."

Dean winced at the reminder of Sam's injuries, and his eyes unintentionally traveled down to his wrists. Sam ignored the look.

"We do it right this time," he insisted, growing more animated. "We go in fast and clean." Dean was on the verge of saying yes — he could feel it — but old habits were still hard to break.

"We'd be disobeying a direct order," he muttered, not to start another fight, but to wrap his head around the idea. It wasn't an easy decision for him; when it came to their dad, he was obedient to a fault. But he also knew what Sam was struggling with, and besides, the Carrigans had it coming. If they had a chance to kill them, sooner rather than later, then Dean was all for it. "So how do we find them?" he asked.

"My blood," Sam quickly replied. "They called my blood valuable, right? Said they were gonna sell it. With a map and a crystal, I can scry for my blood. Assuming they haven't sold it yet, I can track it right to them."

Dean frowned, but Sam could practically see the cogs turning in his head. He was in full hunter mode, mentally running through possible scenarios, his green eyes almost flickering as he played them out in his mind. "What about you? The Carrigans said they could smell psychics. They'll see you coming. Not to mention, they can block your abilities."

It was a fair point, but Sam was not deterred. "Don't worry. Bobby and I have been brainstorming, and we've come up with a few ideas."

 **SPN**

 **(Fargo, North Dakota… January 4, 2008)**

"Isn't there a way you can do this without, y'know, bleeding?" Dean asked, his voice a low rumble. Sam rolled his eyes.

"If there was, you think I'd be doing this?" he pointed out. "It's fine, Dean — it's just a scratch." He proceeded to nick the pad of his left middle finger with a jackknife, barely wincing at the slight pain. He folded the blade and shoved it back in his pocket before using his thumb and forefinger to squeeze a small drop of blood onto a local map of Fargo, which sat on his lap along with a marble-sized silver-obsidian crystal.

"Why'd they have to come here? Freezin' my ass off," Dean grumbled. He jammed his hands under his armpits, despite blasting the car's heat, and glared out at the snow-covered street ahead of them.

"Will you quit your whining?" Bobby chided from the backseat. "Let the kid concentrate." Sam shook his head, ignoring the pair of them.

After removing his brother's stitches back in Sioux Falls, Dean had asked Bobby to assess the kid's health — to judge whether or not he was fit to travel. Bobby gave him the all-clear as long as Sam went easy on his arms, but only if they let the old hunter join them on their clean-up mission. Dean was grateful for the stipulation — their dad told them to 'stay put,' and if they were going to ignore him, at least they had Bobby watching their backs. Sam had no objections either. Unlike John, Bobby was always a welcome presence; he offered his aid without assuming command, and he treated Sam with respect.

Subsequently, they scrounged up a world map and Sam used his psychic abilities to scry for his blood. The process led them to Fargo, where they presently sat in the Impala, trying to pin down the exact location. With Dean and Bobby watching, Sam settled back in the passenger seat, relaxing his muscles, focusing on the crystal.

Gradually, his eyes glazed over, and everything blurred together. He breathed deeply, letting his body sink into the seat, grounding himself to the car as he transitioned from his physical vision to his psychic sight. It was never an experience he could fully explain, but it was like glimpsing objects through a glass, the colors refracting in a strange, mystical way. The more he gave into it, the stronger it became, drawing from the crystal as a conduit to quicken the droplet of blood.

Gradually, the droplet began to move along the map, meandering westward without leaving a trace of its path on the paper. The crystal remained perfectly still, refracting a haze of blue and gold after the liquid.

Finally it stopped.

"There," he heard himself say, but the sound was distant, as if echoing through water in the darkness around him.

"Ramona Avenue," Dean noted, the rumble of his voice pulling Sam out of his trance. He blinked, exhaling sharply, and glanced over at his brother, who looked back at him carefully. "You good?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, pleased to have control again, if only to show Dean and Bobby his capabilities — to demonstrate his usefulness. He knew they didn't doubt him, but sometimes, he still felt like a novice, anxious to prove his worth. Wiping off the blood with his sleeve, Sam passed the crystal over to Bobby, who returned it to the small leather pouch where he kept his collection. Meanwhile, Dean took the map and examined the roads to get his bearings. More snow had begun to fall, adding to the darkness, but Dean had an excellent sense of direction. Nodding to himself, he dropped the map, put the Impala into drive, and pulled away from the curb.

"Here," Bobby offered, reaching forward to pass a small black bag to Sam. Tied shut with twine, it was surprisingly lightweight and pleasantly fragrant. "It's for you," Bobby explained. "I did some research, cross-referencing psychic barriers with pagan herbs, and I think I know what the Carrigans used against you. So I found my own blend to nullify theirs. Made you a hex bag for protection."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said, a rush of gratitude enveloping him. Despite his part in their plan, he still feared Dean would change his mind at the last minute, benching him from all the action. The hex bag, however, assured him that he was still in the game, and he smiled, tucking it away in his coat pocket.

"But he's not gonna need it, right?" Dean asked, casting a sideways glance at his brother. "I thought we agreed — astral projection only."

"That hasn't changed," Bobby confirmed. "It's strictly in case of emergencies, Sam. You can barely hold a stake, much less stab a god with it."

Sam huffed, but there was no sense arguing. His stitches were out, but his strength had yet to return, and it still hurt to make a fist.

"Technically I don't need to _hold_ a stake," he nevertheless muttered, making Bobby roll his eyes. True, Sam's telekinesis could do the job, but why risk it? Astral projection meant zero strain to his wrists, and that was preferable.

"So we stick to the plan?" Dean asked, ignoring Sam's comment, his eyes glued to the road as he drove slowly through the accumulating snow.

"It makes the most sense," Bobby agreed, rubbing his beard thoughtfully as he sat back against the seat. "We've got a street name, but not an address. We don't know which house they'll be in, and we can't go knocking on doors. Hell, they might not even be here. If they already sold the blood, we could be looking at the buyers. There's just no telling… We have to be stealthy, and there's nothing stealthier than astral projection."

They had been over the plan several times already, but Dean was still hesitant. If Sam could allay his nerves by one last review, he might as well. "I'll scout ahead," he told his brother. "Project from one house to the next till I sense my blood, and then I'll figure out who we're dealing with — the Carrigans or the buyers. They won't even see me — I'll stick to concealed projection only."

"And you'll come right back," Dean interjected firmly — it was not a suggestion. "Your job's reconnaissance, got it? Once you have the intel, you come back and we all go in together. Don't do anything stupid."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

"Just wanna be on the same page…" Switching on the blinker, Dean turned the Impala towards Ramona Avenue. He flicked a grin at Sam. "Now what do you say we go spoil their New Year?"

 **SPN**

For most psychics, astral projection was an extremely difficult skill to master. It took years of training, and one lapse in control could mean slipping into a coma. Typically, the risks out-weighed the rewards, especially when the psychic travelers had no one to watch over their physical bodies. It made them vulnerable — virtually defenseless. But Sam was not like most psychics. Astral projection came naturally to him, allowing him to save Dean's life on more than one occasion. When his spirit entered the Veil, he took on the nature of a ghost — a powerful, untethered ghost — and they never would have killed Jacob without it. Since then, his abilities had grown and developed far beyond what he'd ever imagined he'd be capable of when they were first awakened two years ago.

Detaching from his body, which he left asleep in the Impala, Sam's spirit ventured from one house to the next along Ramona Avenue. He took care to conceal himself — a skill he had recently acquired and patiently mastered. Now was not the time for him to 'blink' in and out; he didn't want anyone to accidentally see him and panic.

For the most part, he sensed nothing unusual about the homes he passed through. The families were all normal, with their own quirks, hopes, and anxieties. Some were still basking in the joy of their recent holiday, while others were eagerly anticipating the year ahead. However, one house felt strange from the outset: not a single fairy light twinkled from the roofline, and the yard lacked any form of decoration. When Sam made his way inside, he felt it immediately: the overwhelming grief that inundated every room, pouring out from the heartbroken family. Their youngest had been killed — a little boy, taken in a single tragic moment. It wasn't fair. How could their neighbors celebrate Christmas when their whole world had crashed down on top of them?

Sam grimaced, retreating as quickly as he could back to the previous house. He took a moment, reeling from the family's intense despair; it was like the hospital all over again. When he dropped his guard, opening his mind for psychic readings, sometimes it backfired. Empathy has its drawbacks; he often stumbled under the weight of other people's suffering. No amount of training or experience could lessen the pain — it was the downside of his abilities.

But now was not the time to falter. He had a job to do. Regaining his composure, Sam steeled himself and resumed his search, moving past the grief-stricken home. The next two houses were calm and peaceful, so he hastened on his way.

And then he found it.

He entered a large house with an open-concept floor plan where he could see everything from the dining table to the kitchen to the common area. The floor was hardwood, the appliances were brand new, and the Christmas decorations were still up. It was a nice place — affluent and well-furnished — but tainted with the depravity of pagan gods. The Carrigans were definitely here, along with Sam's blood. He could sense it… like a bad taste in his mouth. But something wasn't right… How could they settle in so quickly? Not to mention, how could they afford it? The whole point of auctioning off his blood had been to fund their relocation, but if they hadn't sold it yet, then how did they pay for all this?

They didn't…

The truth plowed into him like a battering ram. He doubled over, succumbing to an unexpected, unwanted vision.

 _Madge and Edward knocked on the front door, for all appearances a friendly, harmless old couple, new to the neighborhood. They were welcomed into the house by an unsuspecting young woman with long red hair, dressed in a business suit_ — _an attorney who loved Christmas, and always kept her decorations up until Epiphany on January 6._

 _They'd chatted, exchanging merriments and seasonal salutations, until she completely dropped her guard. She offered them hot chocolate and, as she'd turned to the kitchen, they sprang on her. Edward clutched her throat and dragged her effortlessly down into the basement. After tightly binding and gagging her with duct tape, they covered her with a blanket and left her to stew for hours while they went back upstairs and made themselves at home. Then, after treating themselves to her food, they butchered her, slowly, making sure every slice, every crack, was as agonizing as possible._

 _It wasn't necessary… The season for tributes had come to an end, and mild weather would only expose them to hunters. They could have killed the woman quickly and cleanly… but where was the fun in that?_

Sam yanked himself out of the vision, and he reeled backwards with a breathless gasp. It took him a moment to recover. He had to center himself to keep from pinging back to his own body or becoming visible. But grappling with his anger proved difficult. The Carrigans were abhorrent and vulgar: two stains upon the earth.

They deserved no mercy. No compassion.

Stalking towards the common area, Sam sensed their power emerge before he saw them, climbing up from the basement. A moment later, they entered the kitchen, with nothing but a large island separating them from Sam.

"I'm just suggesting that we start to think… bigger, darling," Madge spoke emphatically, bustling past her husband towards a teapot. "We've toured America, what, seven, eight times now? Don't you remember the fun we had in Norway three centuries ago? The Norwegians were so much more… lean."

As she spoke, the pagan goddess went about pouring two cups of tea, looking for all the world like an ordinary wife discussing ordinary plans with her ordinary husband. It was perverse, and as she rambled on, passing a cup to Edward and sitting with him at a round breakfast table, Sam seethed with fury. After everything they'd done, after all the suffering they'd caused, they had the audacity to sit _drinking tea_ like a sweet old couple!

It sickened him.

Looking over to his side, Sam stared up at a huge eight-foot Christmas tree, trimmed with colorful ornaments and white lights, with a beautiful star on top: a decorative masterpiece showcasing the attorney's love for the season. She had been killed for nothing but sport, and now she would never experience Christmas — or anything else — ever again. It wasn't right, and Sam felt his anger shifting into hatred.

The Carrigans needed to die. Now.

 _Recon only, Sam_ , a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. _Go get Dean and Bobby._

No, screw that. He wanted to kill them. He wanted to kill them now, and he couldn't contain it.

"Norway is such a—" Edward abruptly stopped, his cup halfway to his mouth as he slowly glanced around the room. "Honey, can you feel that?" Madge frowned, following his gaze. They couldn't see Sam — that much was obvious — but they suddenly knew he was there, and their eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Oh, my, someone's got a temper," Madge remarked, rising from her seat. "Come on out, dear. There's no need to hide."

Her condescension was the last straw, snapping Sam back into view. He glared at them, fuming in unchecked rage while they processed his appearance.

After a beat, Madge smiled, any concern she might have felt quickly evaporating. "Gosh, it's been a long time since we've had a vengeful spirit on our hands… I did wonder if you survived, dear. I hope your death wasn't too painful."

Sam smirked. "Not as painful as yours will be."

Edward laughed, the sound a throaty bellow, while his eyes remained cold. "Well now, you couldn't kill us when you were alive. What makes you think it'll be any different this time around?"

"I'm psychic," Sam pointed out, channeling his anger. Edward scoffed while Madge's smile tightened.

"It's a shame," she said, keeping her eyes fixed on Sam while addressing her husband. "Edward, be a dear and fetch the poor boy's blood. I hate putting it to waste, but what can you do? It's clearly contaminated." They actually thought he was a ghost, anchored to his own blood. He wasn't even wearing the same clothes! But like everyone else, they mistook him for a weakling — after losing so much blood, his death seemed inevitable. They were so sure of themselves, so damn arrogant, they didn't even consider astral projection.

With a sigh, Edward lumbered to his feet. "If you ask me, burning his blood is too good for him." He proceeded back to the basement, and Sam watched him go, biding his time. If they were stupid enough to separate themselves, he might as well take advantage of it.

"Don't worry, dear," Madge consoled him as she settled herself back in her chair. "We have no use for a dead psychic, so rest assured, it will all be over soon."

Sam fixed his dark gaze on her. "You're right," he snarled, the sound of wood splintering and snapping from the tree beside him. "This won't take long." With a rush of psychic energy, Sam wrenched a branch from the rustling tree. Madge's eyes widened, her mouth dropping open as the branch hovered in the air. It slowly turned in a one-eighty, pointing its jagged, broken tip at the wretched woman.

She jumped to her feet. "No—!"

It shot through the room, much like a spear, and pierced her heart before she could evade it. She toppled backwards, crashing to the ground in a pool of her own blood as Sam forced the branch in deeper.

She was dead in seconds. Sam could feel her monstrous power ebbing away. One down. Without a word, he telekinetically ripped a second limb from the tree, ignoring the rattling ornaments as the whole thing swayed.

"MADGE!"

Edward's roar filled the house as he returned from the basement, eyes fixed on his dead wife. The sight clearly hurt him. Good. Sam raised the second makeshift stake, aiming it with a hard, merciless expression.

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch!"

 **SPN**

"Damn it…" Dean grumbled, sick of waiting. As much as he loved the Impala, it currently felt cramped and oppressive, with the weight of uncertainty bearing down on him. He glanced over at his brother, who sat sprawled out in the passenger seat, head against the window, sleeping soundlessly while his spirit wandered the neighborhood, in search of the gods who nearly killed him. "This was a bad idea. It's taking too long, and I don't like it."

Bobby grunted in the backseat. "Bit late to be second-guessing ourselves." He pulled a flask from his coat pocket and took a swig. "Don't worry. Sam knows what he's doing."

For once in his life, Dean felt too anxious to ask for a drink — he had to stay sharp. Instead, he stared grimly out the windshield. It was a dark night with poor visibility as the snowfall thickened. Through the murky haze, house lights glistened, and Dean could only wonder which of the buildings contained his brother. It wasn't a long street — not really — and when he checked his watch for the upteenth time, his frown deepened. Sam was taking forever — it was going on forty minutes! Why? He was only supposed to—

"Dean, would you _stop_?!" Bobby grumbled, snapping Dean from his spiral of anxiety. He twisted around in his seat, his glare softening when he saw the worry in Bobby's eyes. "Boy, you're just making it worse. Sam is _fine_. No one can touch him. Hell, they can't even see him if he don't want them to! You need to relax… before you end up pushing him away."

Dean sighed, his chest deflating as he rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. "I know. I just… It's been a crazy couple of months. Just when I think we're back to normal, something else comes along and screws it all up." He glanced over at Sam's limp form, inadvertently picturing him back in that damn hospital. They came so close to losing him. "He almost died, Bobby… And now Dad's gone. I'm trying to hold it together, but nothing I do seems to matter." He paused, the anguish clear on his face. "God, I feel so useless."

"You're not, Dean," Bobby assured him, his voice soft and affectionate. "You saved the kid's life. And believe it or not, you're the one he looks up to. You matter more to him than anyone. Why do you think he's so gung-ho to prove himself? This ain't about your dad — not really. Sam doesn't want to let _you_ down any more than you want to let him down."

Dean bowed his head, grateful for the hunter's presence. Bobby had a way of putting things that others could not, least of all Dean's father. Truth was, if Dean tried opening himself up to John like this, he would probably get shot down.

"You know what you boys need?" Bobby asked, his tone brightening. Dean glanced up at him, curious despite himself. "A week or two off. And I don't mean hiding out at my place. I mean a proper vacation, away from the mundane."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious," Bobby exclaimed, quirking an eyebrow at the younger hunter. "I've been planning a trip for myself, but you boys need it more than I do."

"What are you talking about?"

"I made a reservation months ago at a five-star hotel in Vegas," Bobby told him, catching him completely off guard. _Five stars?!_ "And I want you and Sam to go instead."

"Vegas?" Dean asked, his jaw dropping. "You mean _Vegas_ , Vegas? Sin City?"

"The one and only," Bobby said with a grin. "You need to blow off some steam, and Sam's still recovering. He needs to build back his wrist strength, and handling all those cards and chips might help."

"Sam sucks at poker."

"How does a psychic suck at poker?"

"He doesn't like to cheat."

"Isn't that how you boys put food on the table?"

"Yeah, well, not everyone's blessed with a salvage yard."

"Well then," Bobby chuckled. "Looks like you'll have to accept if you ever want to experience the finer things in life." He winked, and Dean rolled his eyes — a response offset by a warm smile.

A ragged gasp made them both jump, and Dean's eyes immediately snapped to his brother. Sam lurched upright, eyes wide, hair falling in his face. No matter how adept he was at astral projecting, it still wasn't easy for him to reconnect his spirit to his body, and the action always left him disoriented.

"It's okay!" Dean reached over to grasp his arm, holding him steady. "I've got you; you're okay! I got you, Sammy."

Sam closed his eyes, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass, focusing on the warm hand that anchored him to the physical realm. It took him a few moments before the floating sensation stopped.

Opening his eyes, he gave Dean a quietly triumphant look. "It's done," he announced, a satisfied smile curving on his lips. "They're dead." His expression turned beseeching — anxious for Dean's approval.

Dean froze. His heart stopped. His shoulders tensed. "Wait, what?!"

"Go easy on him," Bobby advised, but Dean barely heard him — he was too busy trying to process this turn of events. Sam killed them? But what about their plan? They had had a plan! Sam was never supposed to attack on his own. It was too dangerous.

Sam's eyes shuttered, his gaze darting from his brother over to Bobby and back again. He wasn't surprised by Dean's disapproval, and while he didn't regret his decision, he still found himself apologizing. "Look, man… I know we agreed to go in together, and I jumped the gun. And I'm sorry. But I saw an opportunity, and it was too good to pass up. They're dead. It's over."

Dean stared at him, grappling between anger and relief. The Carrigans were dead. Good. But Sam went recklessly off course. Bad. "What happened?"

"The house had a Christmas tree," Sam replied warily. "I yanked off a couple of branches with my telekinesis. Evergreen stakes, right? They did the job."

Bobby leaned forward. "Are you a hundred-percent sure? They're definitely dead?"

"I'm positive, Bobby. I sensed it. They're gone," Sam assured him.

Dean let out a slow, deep breath, struggling to rein in his temper — which he knew Sam could feel, despite his mental barriers. The kid dropped his gaze, lifting a hand to absently rub his temple. He was still adjusting back to his body, and Dean had to force himself not to let his temper lash out. That's what their dad would do, but that wasn't what Sam needed now — he needed understanding. Maybe it was enough that Sam could sense his mood. Dean's feelings about his actions were loudly received; the guilt was already working its way into Sam's expression.

"At least… at least it's done," he mumbled, aware of Sam's eyes widening in relief. Switching on the ignition, Dean shifted the Impala into drive and carefully pulled away from the curb, into the snowstorm. He raised a finger at his brother. "That _doesn't_ make it okay though! But… tell you what…" He could feel his brother tensing beside him. "If you're gonna act like an impulsive cowboy, you just lost your say in the matter."

Sam stared at him uncertainly. "What 'matter'?"

Dean grinned, his gaze sliding back over to meet Sam's. "We're going to Vegas, baby."

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana… January 5, 2008)**

No matter how cold it was in Shreveport, the winters in Louisiana could not compete with those in Switzerland. To Charlotte Styne, the crisp morning air felt warm and refreshing, prompting her to open the windows in her private office — a spacious room on the second floor of the house where she kept her books and artifacts.

Technically, they did not belong to her. They were her sister, Caroline's. But Caroline was dead, and Charlotte was more than willing to take her collection off her cold, lifeless hands. Now, if only she could claim the Book of the Damned, she would have the resources necessary to decimate her critics — to prove to everyone she was not her sister's laughing stock. And if she had to wipe a few countries off the map in order to win their respect, then so be it. She was done living in Caroline's shadow.

But to find the Book of the Damned, they would have to contend with the Winchesters. John, Dean, and Samuel. Infamous hunters and precious legacies of the Men of Letters. Two opposite extremes. Contradictions.

Obstacles.

Dangerous obstacles.

John Winchester was known for killing Stynes, and Samuel was the chosen favorite of Azazel, a prince of Hell. Not to mention, he was also the boy who killed Victor, Charlotte's very own son. Her lips pursed in disdain.

How could such a small, pathetic, miserable family cause so much trouble?

It wasn't that she had loved Victor or mourned his death. In fact, he probably deserved it. He was always an arrogant, sadistic young man, and he brought far too much attention to the Stynes' former name — Frankenstein. Charlotte had never shared her husband's affection for their son. And yet… he was _her_ son. Hers. She did not appreciate strangers vandalizing her property. Samuel would have to apologize; of that she was certain.

Returning to her desk — an extravagant mahogany roll-top — Charlotte sat down and searched several of the drawers for a specific jewelry box. When she found it, she pulled it out and placed it on the desk, carefully opening the lid. Inside, the box contained an assortment of diamonds and other precious gemstones, but Charlotte ignored them in favor of a blue velvet pouch. Picking it up, she loosened the drawstrings and dumped out the small silver charms. They were of no importance.

" _Grandesce_ ," she muttered, watching the velvet pouch grow until it was a gallon-sized bag. Still too small, but she could always adjust it later. Her first priority was embroidering the pouch with the necessary entrapment sigils, using golden thread — enchanted, of course.

A knock on the door interrupted her work, and she turned in time to see Mortimer stepping through her office threshold.

"Forgive my intrusion," he said, peering down at the velvet pouch in blatant curiosity. "The children have found a potential candidate for harvest down in New Orleans. They're ready to collect him, as soon as you complete this hood of yours."

"The embroidery alone will take a day," she replied irritably. "Patience, love."

"Of course," he said calmly. "There is no rush…" He studied the pouch for another moment, his brow furrowed. "Isn't velvet a tad… risky? It's very thick."

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "The fabric has to be durable, or it won't suffice. Yes, I'm sure the boy will be uncomfortable, but the enchantments will keep him from suffocating." Her entrapment sigils were effective; not even death could free the captive.

Mortimer smiled. "Well, in that case, so much the better."

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	10. Closing In

**Time to get Jacob near to our Sammy...**

 **SPN**

 **(Nebraska… January 5, 2008)**

The sun was sinking to the west of Harvelle's Roadhouse, and early customers were already on their way in. Most were hunters, or the family of hunters, and if they had any idea the man with the fisherman's cap who sat by himself at the bar was actually a vampire, they would have been shocked and furious. Ellen shook her head when she saw him. Benny Lafitte was a good and loyal friend, and she would keep his secret, but rumors had begun to surface over the past two years, and if anyone recognized him, it would spell trouble for everyone.

After checking to make sure her new employees all had a handle on their work, Ellen crossed over to Benny and sat beside him. "Haven't seen you in a while. Everything okay?"

He turned his deep blue eyes on her, a look of concern etched on his face. "I'm worried," he said softly, his Cajun voice strained with apprehension. "Something don't smell right. Can't put my finger on it."

Shifting in her seat, Ellen forced a smile, reluctant to give away her discomfort. "I hope it ain't our cookin'."

"If only."

Before she could ask for more details, she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. "Excuse me," she said, pulling it out and checking the caller ID. As a rule, she never ignored her phone — call it maternal instinct. She knew all too well the dangers lurking in the shadows, and if someone needed her help, she made it a point to stay within reach.

John Winchester.

Her eyes widened at the name and she answered immediately. "John? You all right?" Benny cocked his head, clearly taking an interest and openly eavesdropping.

"I have some leads," John replied, straight to the point, as always. "From the looks of it, the demons were after a gun. They killed Gordon for it."

Ellen frowned, not sure whether to be surprised or skeptical. "A gun?"

"A game changer, if it's what I think it is. I need to track it down, at all costs. Tell Jo, if it's any consolation, Gordon was a good hunter. He did everything right. Unfortunately, he happened to find a powerful weapon, and he wasn't prepared for the swarm of demons that came to steal it. They overwhelmed him."

Ellen shuddered. "You need back-up?"

"Not yet. I need more information, and I'm less conspicuous on my own."

Typical. Ellen brushed a hand through her hair in mounting dread. "I'm sorry, but didn't you just say a 'swarm of demons'?"

"I'll be fine," he replied, utterly unfazed. "Take care of yourself, Ellen. There's a war coming, and we had all best be ready for it."

 **SPN**

 **(Las Vegas, Nevada… January 12, 2008)**

A week later, Sam and Dean found themselves entering the Hesperides Resort and Casino, a world away from anything they had ever known. Gone were the squalid motels, full of dingy rooms that always had a peculiar yet familiar smell to them. The Hesperides was a towering monolith of twenty-six floors. Outside, the resort featured five swimming pools, numerous hot tubs, and a putt-putt course. Surrounded by palm trees, it offered everything Dean could hope for from a Vegas dream vacation. It was so perfect that, for once, Dean didn't mind passing the Impala's spare key to the resort's professional valet, who promised to have her waxed and shining by the time they left.

"This is awesome," he said with a grin as they entered the extravagant lobby. Everything about it screamed luxury, from the dazzling eight-foot chandeliers made of hand-cut glass to the polished marble floor, and everything in-between: huge decorative columns, statues of cultural icons, elegant fountains, and the plush red sofas in the common areas. It was no surprise the place was bustling with activity as guests went about their business, talking, laughing, and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Dean glanced over at Sam, aware of his more subdued demeanor — big cities and large crowds could be hard on the psychic, but at least they no longer crippled him. Still, Dean's brow crinkled in concern. "Look, man, we don't have to stay if it's too loud."

Sam shook his head, forcing a reassuring smile that quickly fell. "No, it's okay. I just… I still gotta adjust, but once I get the volume turned down, I should be fine." Dean watched him carefully, torn between his desire to protect him and his excitement to partake in the luxury around them — but thankfully, Sam had developed sufficient control over his abilities, and he could reduce the power of his telepathy at will. It just took a little time. "I just… don't you think we're a little underdressed?"

As usual, they were both in their boots and jeans; Dean wore a blue canvas shirt over a black T-shirt, and Sam wore a flannel shirt under his green jacket. Meanwhile, everyone else had dressed for a night on the town — the men were all in business casual and the ladies were just… stunning. As Dean surveyed the crowd, he whistled appreciatively and clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Confidence, Sammy. That's all they care about."

"Pretty sure it's not."

But Dean was already on his way to the front desk, hauling both of their duffel bags. The next available clerk was a broad-shouldered man in a black suit with a gold name badge, and he offered Dean a courteous smile. "Welcome to the Hesperides Resort, sir. How may I help you?"

"Hiya," Dean said cheerfully. "My uncle set up a reservation for us. Bobby Singer."

"One moment…" The clerk turned to his computer and typed in some information. "Bobby… Singer… Yes. I do have a note that he called to update his reservation. I'll just need a photo ID to verify your information."

"Sure thing." Dean fished his wallet out of his pocket and gave the clerk his latest driver's license. The clerk processed it, made a few more notes on his computer, and retrieved two hotel card keys along with a brochure, handing them all back to Dean.

"Thank you, Mr. Singer," he said with practiced hospitality. "I have you and your brother set up in room 603: one of our two-bed standard suites. We have three different dining options, including Sonya's Cuisine. The casino floor is through the double doors straight ahead, and our concierge services are available at your convenience. Please let us know if you require any assistance."

"Thanks."

"Enjoy your stay."

 **SPN**

"Thank you, Bobby!" Dean exclaimed in delight as they entered their room on the sixth floor. It instantly surpassed their expectations. Not only did it smell clean, but it came with a fully-stocked fridge and minibar, a large plasma HDTV and complimentary bathrobes. Sam grinned, rolling his eyes affectionately when he saw the excitement spark across Dean's face — the perpetual kid in a candy store who didn't know which direction to go in first. "Can you believe this!?"

"No, actually," Sam remarked, watching in amusement as Dean claimed the nearest bed for himself, tossing Sam's duffel bag on the far bed. "I don't know how Bobby could afford this, and I don't know why he wasted it on us."

Dean shrugged. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Sammy. And it's not a 'waste.' Bobby knows we've been pushin' it too hard these last few months. Hell, you nearly died! If anyone deserves a vacation, it's you." As he spoke, he threw himself backwards on the bed, reveling in the simple joy of a lump-free mattress. His eyes tracked upwards to the head of the bed. "Does it…?"

"No, Dean, there's no Magic Fingers!" Sam snorted, wrinkling his nose in mock-disgust. "Places like this don't cater to your sick habits."

"Relaxation's not a sick habit, Sammy," Dean brushed him off, staring blissfully up at the ceiling. "You should try it."

Sam shook his head. "I'd rather get some food. Real food. You in?"

Dean was back on his feet in an instant. "C'mon, Sammy. Do you really have to ask?"

 **SPN**

 **(35,000 feet above New Mexico… January 13, 2008)**

It was a painfully long flight from Shreveport to Las Vegas, and no amount of first-class pampering could make it tolerable. Jacob sat in the aisle seat next to Gemma, opening and closing his hands, clenching his jaw, stretching his neck… He tried to remind himself that flying was faster than driving, and it could have been worse, but such concessions did little to stem his impatience. Sam was out there… so close, but still so far… The wait was unbearable. Two years… It felt more like two centuries.

How strange. Jacob had always been a composed, disciplined man — the epitome of self-control — able to endure anything — even life in a federal super-max prison. But when it came to his little brother, Jacob felt insatiable… and the longer he was denied his little brother, the worse it became. He was stuck in suspended separation, and it was agonizing — like hell on earth.

But at least he had an excuse for his agitation.

Gemma glanced up from the book she was reading and graced him with a sympathetic smile. "It was a difficult upgrade," she acknowledged in a gentle whisper. "But I promise you, Jacob, in time you will adjust to your new power. And before long, you will rise above Dario and rejoin the upper echelons of the family. It is your birthright, not his. You have the maturity that he lacks. Trust me, Jacob. If you stay true to us, you will reclaim all the privileges you once enjoyed… and so much more."

He sighed, glancing back at her with his brand-new green eyes. "I won't let you down." At this point, he would tell Gemma anything she wanted to hear, as long as it brought him closer to Sam.

 **SPN**

 **(Fremont Street, Las Vegas… January 15, 2008)**

The sun beat down on the desert city, but thanks to the enormous barrel-vault canopy, the Fremont Street Experience was pleasantly shaded. Tourists were everywhere, bustling up and down the mall amidst bright colors and upbeat music. They talked, they laughed, they danced — some whooped in excitement as they zip-lined overhead. Las Vegas was known for its nightlife, but even in the afternoon, people could still enjoy the city's attractions.

As Sam roamed the street, he felt oddly jubilant for the first time in… hell, he didn't know how long. It had been three days since their arrival, and the temporary respite was just what he needed. No hunting. No responsibilities. No pressure. And most importantly, no headaches. When he first developed his telepathy, large crowds had been overwhelming — even debilitating. He couldn't set foot in a city, much less relax in one.

But now he had the control to restrict his abilities, and the freedom was exhilarating. While Dean remained at the casino, gambling to his heart's content, Sam took off by himself, eager to explore. Las Vegas had so much history, and opportunities like this were both rare and fleeting. He paused for a moment, his face upturned, watching in amusement as the zip-liners flew through the air.

 **SPN**

The crowd buzzed around him, pushing and swirling in a cacophony of noise that was just… galling. Cockroaches: that's all they were. And yet, Jacob had to be grateful for them. A troupe of dancers in shimmering, flamboyant costumes sashayed past him, allowing him to move forward, closer. He knew he was going in the right direction.

 _There_.

Jacob stopped, catching his breath, oblivious to the man behind him who swore angrily at his abrupt halt. He was much too focused on his little brother. On Sam.

 _Finally._

Jacob eagerly drank in the sight of him, basking in the release. All the impatience, all the frustration, all the tension instantly poured out of him, leaving behind a rush of unbridled satisfaction.

Damn. If it felt this good just glimpsing his brother, how much better would it feel to finally reclaim him?

Sam was standing on the edge of the pedestrian mall, between store entrances. Despite the desert heat, he wore a green coat — it was January, after all — and was gazing up at the canopy with his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he simply enjoyed… being.

He had changed. Jacob could tell, even from afar. His hair was still long, but not as tousled, and he was starting to bulk up, growing into his height. His shoulders were broad, and he carried himself with strength and confidence. Gone was the vulnerable, lanky college boy. Sam was officially a hunter in his prime, and Jacob felt a moment of fresh anticipation. They would accomplish so much together.

But not yet. Sam wouldn't just capitulate; he would resist every step of the way, and considering all his talent, he would certainly be a handful. Jacob would be wise to bear that in mind. As much as he wanted to cross the distance between them, to apprehend Sam and never let him go… it wasn't the right time. They had to finish their preparations. In fact, Jacob was only allowed near his brother to evaluate his fighting condition, so they could strategize accordingly. It was still too soon to make their move. Tonight. He could wait until tonight.

And so, he watched, safely hidden among the pedestrians as Sam resumed his tour of the city. Following him would be a thrill. Even if the boy had been using his telepathy — which he clearly wasn't — Jacob had the mental prowess to shield his mind from outside intrusion. And thanks to Sam's height, Jacob didn't have to risk venturing too close. His brother would not see him.

Not until he was ready to be seen.

 **SPN**

It was getting late in the day, and a quick glance at his watch told Sam to find a taxi back to the resort. The Fremont Street Experience might have more to offer at night, but he was a hell of a lot more interested in the Ladyheart concert. He didn't have a ticket, but depending on how much cash he could swipe from Dean, he might be able to haggle with a scalper. No guarantees, but he might as well try. What were the odds that he'd be in Vegas at the same time as Vince Vincente? Especially since the rock band rarely performed anymore?

He turned, carefully navigating his way back through the pedestrian mall toward the road. If Dean asked, what should he tell him? Sam knew his brother wasn't a Ladyheart fan, forcing him to spend much of his childhood hiding his appreciation for the group. Even a live concert in Vegas wouldn't garner Dean's approval.

As Sam weighed his options, his thoughts were suddenly — without warning — interrupted by a stream of anxiety so intense it bordered on panic. Sam grimaced, stopping short in alarm. If he could sense someone's fear despite his diminished abilities, it must have been bad, and he wasn't about to ignore it. Glancing around, he scanned the crowd for the source of the anxiety, and quickly found himself observing a young girl who stood awkwardly by herself under a palm tree. She couldn't have been older than Cyrus, and she looked close to tears, obviously lost — why else would a child be alone in the middle of Vegas?

He had to help her.

 **SPN**

For a split second, Jacob wondered if Sam had somehow sensed his presence. He had been perfectly at ease one moment, and then, in the blink of an eye, he was standing stock-still, clearly troubled. It wouldn't have been implausible… Sam's skills were extraordinary. If anyone could detect Jacob when he was actively concealing himself, it would naturally be his little brother.

But no… Sam's attention was drifting through the crowd, eventually landing on a child. She was standing by herself — easy prey. The Stynes had very little use for street urchins, especially female, and Jacob would never have noticed the girl without Sam… but he could imagine other predators would drool at the mere sight of her. After all, to the right people, she could make an interesting toy, a valuable asset, or even both. But that didn't explain Sam's interest in her. Jacob frowned, watching in bewilderment.

His brother took an open approach, making eye contact with the girl, his shoulders rounding forwards to reduce some of his intimidating height as he knelt down in front of her. He wasn't being stealthy at all — he caught the attention of some other tourists, and they turned to gawk, both at Sam and the girl. Oddly enough, their impertinence didn't seem to annoy Sam. If anything, he encouraged it. After trading a few words with the girl, he glanced up at the tourists and issued some kind of command. They quickly turned their heads, scanning the crowd as if searching for someone. The next thing Jacob knew, they were flagging down other tourists, talking to them, as if… spreading the word. All the while, Sam knelt in front of the girl, chatting with her, making her smile.

It took Jacob a moment to comprehend the situation. His brother was comforting the girl, keeping a protective eye on her while delegating the other tourists to look for her family. And surprisingly, they were all cooperating like good Samaritans, despite the inconvenience. What a massive waste of time.

Jacob sighed, rolling his eyes. Sam had grown so much over the past two years, but judging from this display of compassion, he might as well still be a child himself. Innocent. Benevolent.

Naive.

The Winchesters were far too lenient with him, to allow this kind of behavior, which meant Jacob would have to be extra diligent to correct the indulgence.

As he continued watching the spectacle play out in front of him, Jacob felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and answered without bothering to check the ID. "Status?"

"We've bought everything we could possibly need, and then some," Gemma told him serenely. "The wait is over, Jacob. Meet us at the Hesperides. We'll finalize our plans, based on your report, and tonight we'll claim our two prizes."

Jacob smiled. "Best news I've heard all week." The call ended abruptly — Gemma had no reason to drag out the conversation — and Jacob returned the phone to his pocket.

"Gabriela!"

A middle-aged woman appeared shoving her way through the crowd, anxiously searching for the girl. When they saw each other, their faces both lit up.

"Mama!" The girl raced to her mother and jumped in her arms. They held each other tightly, oblivious to the onlookers who watched happily, sharing in their relief. Jacob, however, had eyes only for Sam. He paid close attention to the boy's reaction, observing his warm smile, his gentle demeanor, his quiet retreat… He clearly deserved recognition — a reward, perhaps, or at the very least some gratitude… but he asked for nothing. Instead, he took his leave, resuming his walk without a backward glance.

Jacob followed, silently shaking his head.

 _Oh, Sam… there's still so much I have left to teach you._

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	11. Retrieval

**It's the one you've been waiting for :) Full whump! ahead!**

 **SPN**

 **(Hesperides Resort and Casino, Las Vegas… January 15, 2008)**

They had been in Vegas for three, nearly four days, and Dean was having the time of his life. Of course he did some basic sightseeing along with his brother, but for the most part, he favored the resort and all its amenities. When he wasn't taking other people's money, he was eating fine food, drinking at the nightclub, and sleeping in on the world's best mattress. He spent a few hours at the pool — where he friggin' _sunbathed_ while checking out the women — and he treated himself to a hot-stone massage at the Hesperides Spa. No happy ending, but all the same, it was… indescribable.

They were only halfway through the week, and Dean already felt like a new man. When they had to go back to hunting, he would be at the top of his game. Not to mention wealthy — he had twenty grand in chips! They should have done this ages ago.

The evening was starting to pick up as more and more people wandered onto the casino floor. Dean found himself at a poker table with three other men and two women — a dark-haired entrepreneur, a college professor, a suburban dad, his girlfriend, and a single, attractive blonde who sat to his right. For the most part, they were easy to read, friendly and conversational. The entrepreneur had experience on his side — and he knew it, too. The professor played it safe, calculating the percentages, while the suburbanite was understandably more interested in his girlfriend. The blonde, however… Dean couldn't quite figure her out.

She sat beside from him with perfect posture, in a sleek white cocktail dress with a diamond necklace, her golden hair pulled up in a flawless bun. Win or lose, her serene expression never changed, giving her one hell of a poker face, and Dean wondered if she was actually interested in her chips… or something else entirely. For all the times he'd checked her out, he'd been acutely aware of her doing it right back when he wasn't looking. Her gaze flicked up to meet his and he gave her his most charming smile.

"If I bet, will you call me?" he asked cheekily while the dealer set a nine of hearts on the board with the other community cards.

She laughed at him, rolling eyes that were an intoxicating shade of blue. "Does that line ever actually work?" She had a rich, exotic voice that made Dean's heart flutter.

"Truth be told, I haven't used it before, so you tell me, Miss…?" he grinned, leaving the question open, his attention solely on her.

"My name is Gemma," she replied receptively, much to his delight. He watched in admiration as she gracefully placed her bet in the pot. "And I wouldn't say it's the worst line you could've led with."

"Good to know," Dean laughed, turning his attention briefly back to his cards. Across the table, their conversation had caught the attention of the entrepreneur.

"Where you from, Gemma?" he asked, sharing Dean's interest. "Somewhere in Europe?" He placed his bet as well, all the while sizing her up in blatant lust, not that she seemed to notice. It was the professor's turn to make his wager, but he hesitated, brow furrowed in concentration.

Meanwhile, Sam appeared at the table next to Dean, clasping his brother's shoulder with one hand. "Hey, man, I need to cash in some chips."

Dean glanced up at him in surprise. "Oh, hey Sammy, where've you been?"

"Check," the professor said, and Dean called without a second thought.

"I just need three of these," Sam said, reaching for Dean's stack of purple chips and swiping a few of them.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean objected playfully, but he didn't really mind, and he made no effort to stop him. "What are you gonna do with those?"

"Thought I'd check out a concert," Sam replied, trying way too hard to sound casual. "Wanna come?"

Before Dean could fully process his brother's forced tone, the entrepreneur interrupted. "Sorry, _Sammy_ , but I fully intend to win those chips, so he can't go anywhere till I'm done."

And just like that, Dean felt his temper flare. Who the hell was this guy to be such a dick to his brother?

Sam glanced over at the entrepreneur with a frown. "It's Sam," he snapped, which only brought a smirk to the bastard's face.

"Oh, I get it," he taunted. "You only let your boyfriend call you Sammy."

"Are you drunk or something?" Gemma snarled, cutting in before Dean could. Both Winchesters looked at her in surprise but her glare was fixed on the man across the table. "If that's the case, you had best fold now, or I'll have your chips long before you take his."

The man reddened, much to Dean's amusement. "Thanks," he told Gemma. "But if he thinks he can take my chips, he's delusional." She smirked while their antagonist scowled.

"We'll see about that," he muttered, and Dean had to give him credit. If his goal was to keep the hunter — and his chips — at the table, then he certainly succeeded. Dean wasn't going anywhere until the bastard was thoroughly humiliated.

"You go ahead," he told Sam, who looked back at him uncertainly. "I might be a while. Have fun."

Sam sighed. "Stay out of trouble."

"Don't worry," Gemma said, treating Sam to a friendly wink. "I'll keep an eye on him for you."

If that wasn't a clear signal, Dean didn't know what was. He grinned, amazed by his good luck, and gave Sam one last sideways glance. "Don't wait up."

 **SPN**

The plan was in motion, and so far, things were going better than could be expected. Gemma, Dario, and their servant, Giles, were all in position, while Jacob kept an eye on Sam to prevent the boy from interfering — but they shouldn't have been concerned. Unlike Dean, Sam was not a miserable delinquent, and he would always go out of his way to avoid his poor-excuse-for-a-brother's disgusting exploits. Consequently, Dean would walk straight into their trap, and Sam would be none the wiser. It was perfect.

Still, Jacob didn't mind following Sam out of the resort and tracking him across the city. It felt akin to spending time with the boy, and something about Sam's carefree ignorance made it more exciting. In the past, whenever they were together, Sam had always been so guarded, shutting himself off from Jacob as much as their bond would allow. But now, he was unsuspecting… fully exposed… and Jacob savored the opportunity to glimpse beyond his defenses.

To be honest, it still shocked him to learn how young and innocent the boy really was, despite appearances. According to 'destiny,' Sam belonged to the devil himself — a fact Jacob would never acknowledge — but why would the devil want someone so… idealistic?

The demon Azazel believed that Sam could be trained. Perhaps… But Jacob was Sam's brother, and Jacob would see to his training — not for the devil, of course, but for Sam's personal well-being. The boy belonged to Jacob. He was adopted by Monroe, and sooner or later, he would understand his place among the Stynes. He would accept his rightful family, and he would thank Jacob for saving him. It was only a matter of time.

Meanwhile, Sam unwittingly led Jacob to a small concert venue a few blocks from the Strip. It was a full house that night, but given the size of the place, it wasn't a large crowd. Ladyheart… Jacob had never heard of the group, but judging from all the posters, they were nothing but second-rate, would-be rock stars. Typical. If Jacob wasn't in such a good mood, he would have been disappointed. Not in Sam. It was hardly Sam's fault if John and Dean never treated him to real music. But damn… John and Dean were such negligent, indulgent failures! Sam deserved so much better than this.

The poor kid… He had no idea what he was missing. He actually looked happy when he found a miscreant with a cardboard sign that read, "Tickets for Sale." They negotiated a price, and Sam paid in cash, thanking the man with a genuine smile.

Jacob found himself inching closer, relishing the boy's expression. It was so rare to see this side of Sam's personality, and Jacob knew if he didn't enjoy it now, it might be a while before he had another opportunity. And so, for no other reason, he watched his little brother disappear inside the concert hall… then bought a ticket for himself. The 'music' would be abhorrent, he had no doubt about that, but after this evening, Sam would be back under his strict discipline… permanently.

Allowing him one last hurrah was the least Jacob could do.

 **SPN**

Dean wasn't sure what time it was, but the evening had flown by in a whirlwind of gambling and dancing. As promised, they had creamed the entrepreneur, taking every chip he had, and then, high on success, Gemma had led Dean from the casino floor to the nightclub, where they had shared drinks while talking about…

Well, to be honest, Dean couldn't remember what they'd been talking about. His mind was somewhere else, despite his best efforts to focus.

Gemma was mesmerizing. Her voice was seductive, and her words were inviting. She made the first move, reaching out to caress Dean's face, her lips grazing his and after that… he was absolutely enamored. Before long, they were in the hallway, arms wrapped around each other as they kissed almost feverishly. Even with her in his arms, pressed up against a wall, they weren't close enough. He needed this — her — almost more than he needed air. Gemma pulled him from the wall, nipping at his lower lip before tugging him down the hall. Dean wasn't sure where they were going, and he couldn't care less. He simply followed as Gemma ushered him away from the crowd, stopping every few steps to devour each other all over again. Her lips were soft and arousing, the way she ran her hands through his hair sent sparks down his spine.

Before he knew it, the elevator doors pinged behind him. He pulled her in and Gemma pushed the 'down' button, moaning when Dean's hand cupped around the back of her neck, his fingers threading into her hair below the bun, tilting her head up and grazing his lips tantalizingly against her throat. The doors pinged again and Dean almost groaned in frustration as he pulled away from her. The underground garage lay beyond the doors. Dean might have questioned their exit choice, but then remembered the Impala: that explained it. She'd been impressed when he'd spoken of the true American muscle car that was his pride and joy. Her eagerness to see it was all the encouragement he needed to show it off.

Her hand slipped under his shirt, reaching up his back, gently scratching his skin. He groaned, excitement coursing through him. They stepped off the elevator, into the silent parking lot. Gemma withdrew her hand from under his shirt and Dean watched her giggle, eyes sparkling. God, she was beautiful… She took his hand and playfully led him away from the elevator, past several rows of luxury vehicles. Her heels echoed through the empty space and Dean couldn't help but appreciate the view as she strutted in front of him, her hand clasping his tightly. She peeked back over her shoulder, her eyes bright and alluring. Suddenly, she spun around and shoved him up against the side a black cargo van, her hands snaking behind his neck.

"You're mine," she whispered seductively, her lips brushing against his.

A whooshing noise made Dean jump as the door to the van slid open. Gemma gave him no time to react — she viciously kneed him in the groin. Dean gasped, taken completely by surprise. He would have doubled over, but Gemma managed to support his weight.

A pair of arms reached out of the van, snatching Dean by his shirt. With Gemma's help, they hauled him backwards, into the vehicle. As soon as he caught his breath, he tried to shout, but a hand swiftly clamped down on his mouth. He struggled wildly, taking in as much of his surroundings as he could. Two large men occupied the spacious cargo hold, and together they managed to wrestle him onto the floor.

"Be a good boy, Dean: no alerting your brother," Gemma commanded with a smile as she stood outside the door, watching in amusement.

 _No alerting… what?_

The instruction baffled him, but he had no time to think about it as the two men grappled with him, forcing him flat on his back. With the weight of both of them pinning him down, the hand withdrew from his mouth.

"What the fu— mmph!" A large cloth was quickly stuffed in, muffling his objections. He bucked angrily, straining against his captors, but they were inhumanly strong. While one snagged Dean's hair, yanking his head up, the other wrapped a bandana tightly around his mouth, sealing in the gag. He bellowed furiously, but was helpless to stop them as they rolled him onto his stomach. His arms were wrenched behind his back, and a jolt of fear sparked through him when he felt the rope winding around his wrists. Son of a…

His legs were also bound, both at his ankles and knees. When his captors finally released him, he was securely tied, and no matter how hard he squirmed, he found no slack in his restraints. Crap.

"Oh, _härzli_ ," Gemma crooned, reaching in to stroke Dean's face. He growled, yanking away from her touch as he glared up at her. She sighed, feigning sympathy. "I hope I didn't hurt you. Too much. You must believe me when I say I'm sorry, and I'll make it up to you." She turned her attention to his waist, and the next thing he knew, her hand was slipping into his pocket. He jerked, attempting to swing his legs around, fully intending to kick her, but the two strange men were immediately on top of him, holding him down.

When Gemma's hand emerged from his pocket, she was in possession of his wallet. "There," she said with a triumphant smile. "You won't be needing this again." She winked at him, lightly brushing her fingers up the side of his arm. Dean quivered despite himself when she bent towards him, eyes bright with adrenaline. She leaned in, cupping his chin with a gentle hand while her lips grazed his earlobe. "Don't worry, _härzli_ … I can still show you a good time. You'll see, soon enough." With that, she pulled away, glancing up at Dean's two captors. "Dario, he's our guest. Please be gentle."

The man directly above Dean scoffed. He was a tall blond thug who matched Sam in height, wearing a fancy gray shirt with a black vest and tie. "Define 'gentle.'"

"Don't break anything," she snapped, a clear warning in her voice. "He's not yours to play with."

Twisting onto his side, Dean glanced uneasily from Gemma up to the man, painfully aware of the malice in his eyes. He didn't know who these people were or what they wanted, but Dario was definitely sadistic: there was no question about that.

"What about the brother?" he asked, much to Dean's alarm. "Might I have some fun with him?"

 _Sam!_

 _No, no, no, no!_

Dean moaned, turning his frantic gaze back to Gemma, silently pleading with her to spare his brother. Anything but Sam.

She smiled when she noticed his expression. "Remember what I said, _härzli_." She ran her fingers through his hair. "No calling for Sam."

How could he possibly call for Sam?

Then it struck him: by lowering his mental barriers and unleashing a wave of emotion that Sam may or may not detect — which meant they knew Sam was psychic. Son of a…! And considering Sam's self-imposed holiday restrictions, the odds of him tuning into his brother's plight were slim at best.

Dean grunted, writhing on the floor, straining uselessly against his restraints. How did they know about Sam? What the hell was going on? The more he thought about raising the alarm — or at least attempting to raise the alarm — the more his mental barriers reinforced themselves, locking his emotions inside.

What the hell did Gemma do to him?

"Let's worry about amusing ourselves once we're in the clear," the bitch told Dario. "Business before pleasure. For now, keep an eye on this one. It would be worth searching him — make sure he can't free himself. I'll attend to his brother." She opened Dean's wallet and swiped his room key while flashing him a patronizing smile. "This won't be difficult."

Dean shook his head, eyes wide, his shout a faint whisper through his gag. This could _not_ be happening! _Sam!_

Gemma took a step back, blowing Dean a kiss before sliding the door shut with sickening finality.

 **SPN**

Growing up on the road, Sam never dreamed he would have the opportunity to attend a concert of any kind, much less a Ladyheart concert. It was incredible. The lights, the music, the camaraderie… Everyone in the audience adored Vince Vincente, and he had the charisma to treat them all like friends and family. They shared a rapport that felt genuine — if only for an evening — and while it wasn't a gig at the Colosseum, it still surpassed Sam's expectations. It almost reminded him of the wrestling matches he'd go to with Dean and their dad — one of the few activities they all loved outside of the job.

When he returned to the Hesperides, it was after midnight and his spirits were high. Yet, after that concert, nothing at the resort appealed to him — he'd already had his fun cutting loose on the casino floor — so, instead Sam made his way up to the room. Dean had been right about their beds — they were unbelievably comfortable — and, for once, he shared his brother's desire to revel in the luxury of their room a little more than they usually would.

Just to be on the safe side, Sam gave their door a considerate knock before entering. Usually, Dean tried to maintain some distance between his brother and his flings, but that didn't make it a guarantee, and Sam would rather not walk in on anything explicit. Thankfully, it didn't sound like the room was occupied — Dean must have taken his date somewhere else. It had been nice to see his brother in the company of a woman who clearly matched him in wit. She would give Dean a run for his money, and it would be good for him. Sam just hoped that they hadn't been so captivated by each other that they were somewhere other than in a room… Considering he hadn't seen them on his way up, he could only assume that they'd found somewhere private to ensnare each other.

Unlocking the door, Sam let himself in and quickly surveyed the room. Sure enough, he was alone. A part of him would have liked to hang out with his brother, and he sighed regretfully — they had spent the last few days pursuing different interests and Sam was starting to miss him. Maybe tomorrow they could find something to do together.

Shrugging out of his coat and hanging it up in the closet, Sam proceeded into the bathroom, tugging his shirt off as he went, and turned on the shower. Hopefully, the hot water would help him unwind from the concert so he could sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, he came out feeling clean and refreshed, dressed in baggy sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He had to admit, this was probably the best vacation they'd ever had — Bobby was a lifesaver.

Climbing into bed, relishing the soft sheets and plump pillows, Sam lay down and closed his eyes. All seemed right with the world, and before long, he found himself drifting off into a quiet, peaceful slumber.

 **SPN**

Sitting at a private booth in the Hesperides nightclub, Jacob nursed a cognac while waiting to rendezvous with Gemma. They had spoken briefly on the phone, and he was pleased to hear about Dean's abduction. No complications. Everything was progressing smoothly, and once they picked up Sam, they could be on their way back to Shreveport. A twenty-hour drive, at the very least. He hoped to make the most of their time together, and wondered how he should reveal his resurrection to the boy… Poor Sam thought he was dead. It would no doubt overwhelm him to learn the truth. Such delicate situations required careful planning. They would remember this moment for the rest of their lives, and Jacob wanted to make it worthy of the occasion.

His cell phone buzzed on the table in front of him and he picked it up, smiling at the text from Gemma.

 _Ready when you are. G._

Jacob finished his drink in one mouthful, enjoying the burn of the cognac as it washed down his throat. Collecting his things, he slid out of the booth and straightened his suit before striding out of the bar, a spring in his step. Anticipation welled up inside him. He'd been waiting so long and now the moment was here. Just him and Sam… No miserable Winchesters to get in his way and spoil their reunion.

The elevator took too long to arrive, and even longer to ascend. Jacob had never been particularly restless, but now he could barely stop himself from fidgeting as he glared at the numbers while they slowly lit up, one by one. Finally, the elevator pinged and the doors slid open smoothly.

Jacob turned down the hall, watching Gemma approach from the other direction with an empty wheelchair, her shoes silent against the carpet. They converged a few doors away from Sam's room.

"It's been over an hour," Gemma spoke softly, keeping her voice low. "I listened at the door ten minutes ago and heard nothing. He must be asleep by now."

"Possibly, but regardless, we need to be ready," Jacob murmured. "If Sam's awake, he won't be easy to subdue. Did you bring it?"

Gemma nodded, reaching into her clutch bag for a small clear bottle and a white cloth. "I'll keep this—" she indicated the wheelchair, "—out here until you're done. The hallway's been dead since I arrived. I very much doubt spectators will be a problem."

Jacob took the supplies, uncapped the bottle, and poured a liberal amount of chloroform onto the cloth. With a rush of excitement, he screwed the cap back on and tucked the bottle away in his jacket's inside pocket. Then, moving to Sam's door, he waited, listening carefully.

He heard nothing.

Satisfied, he gave Gemma a nod. She stepped forward, inserting a card key in the lock and yanking it back out. It popped quietly and Jacob opened the door, pleased by the darkness within.

 **SPN**

A soft grating sound stirred Sam from sleep. Years of training had left him sensitive to the slightest disturbances, and it didn't take much to wake him. The room remained dark beyond his eyelids as he listened to the soft footfalls entering the room. Rolling over, he blinked blearily, expecting to greet his brother…

Instead, someone clamped a thick cloth over his mouth and nose.

Shock would have jolted him upright, but a heavy weight pinned him down, and before he could stop himself, he gasped, breathing in a lungful of sweet-smelling fumes.

 **SPN**

Sam's muffled grunt of surprise was like music to Jacob's ears. He held the cloth firmly against his brother's face, tightening his hold when Sam started to fight. His hands came up, clawing at Jacob's arm, but his jacket sleeve protected him. God, the boy had grown strong!

Sam thrashed beneath him, jerking his head, trying to wrench away from the oppressive cloth. He kicked out futilely, the bed covers wrapping around his legs, ensnaring him. A guttural moan escaped from beneath Jacob's hand, making him grin. Sam had tried holding his breath, but he was only human, and now he couldn't help himself.

Gradually, his strength depleting, Sam began to succumb. His eyes fluttered, and his squirming petered out. He threw one last punch, barely grazing Jacob's shoulder, before his arm fell limply to the bed. His eyes closed, and his whole body sagged, his face slumping to the side.

Jacob took a deep breath, shivering in ecstasy.

This was real.

He had him.

He _finally_ had his brother.

While keeping the cloth in place, Jacob's other hand roamed Sam's body, stroking his arm, rubbing his chest… brushing his forehead… petting his hair.

This was _real_!

Jacob gave the chloroform another minute to work its magic — they couldn't risk Sammy waking up before they reached the van — and then he pulled the boy into his embrace. Carefully guiding Sam's head to rest on his shoulder, Jacob held him with all the tenderness and affection of a long-lost brother. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, rocking Sam gently. "I never meant to leave you… I never will again."

Unfortunately, time was of the essence.

He carefully laid Sam down, kissing his forehead, and then made his way back to the door. He held it open for Gemma, closing it behind her as she silently pushed the wheelchair into the room. Then, he turned on the lights and glanced around. Even if Sam had not been asleep in his bed, anyone could tell which side of the room belonged to him. He was so well organized — his clothes were folded neatly and he had a small stack of books on the desk near his laptop. Dean, on the other hand… his clothes were cluttering up the floor, along with empty beer bottles and coffee cups. Since they had declined the resort's housekeeping services, Dean's bed wasn't even made! The slob.

Gemma approached Sam with surprising delicacy. Her late brother, Victor, had been a sadistic, entitled pain in the ass, and Jacob had spent the last week wondering if Gemma would prove likewise. But so far, she was strangely accommodating. Once she parked the wheelchair, she gave Sam's face a thoughtful glance, then opened her clutch bag for a single gallon-sized Ziploc bag. She reached for the wet cloth and secured it inside the bag, tossing it to Jacob for him to pocket. Then, instead of ripping off Sam's bed sheets, Gemma turned away, scavenging the room for a large blanket.

Of course. Sam would appreciate them respecting his modesty. Returning to his brother, Jacob stroked his hair, then checked discreetly under the sheets. Sam had gone to bed in a pair of sweatpants. Good. That would do. For now, anyway.

Pushing the sheets aside, Jacob slid his arms under the boy and hoisted him from the bed, transferring him effortlessly into the wheelchair. It took a moment to prop him up, so he wouldn't topple to the floor, but Jacob revelled at the opportunity to care for him. His eyes happened to stray down to Sam's left wrist, where he knew the boy was branded with the family tattoo. A gentle reminder of his rightful heritage. What would Gemma think when she saw it?

Jacob couldn't help himself. He glanced at his own tattoo, wanting — no, _needing_ — to see the physical unity they had in their matching emblems. Taking Sam's hand, he turned it over, exposing the inside of his forearm…

But the tattoo was gone.

Jacob's breath caught in his throat.

In its place ran a long, bright scar, barely healed.

What the hell?

A sneaking suspicion drew Jacob's attention to his brother's other wrist, where he quickly discovered a matching scar.

No…

What—?

They were fresh — brand new! If this was recent, what else had Sam suffered these past two years? For all their talk of 'family,' _this_ was how the Winchesters looked out for their own? _This_ was how Dean _cared_ for his brother?!

Suddenly consumed with scorching fury, Jacob turned and stalked away from the bed, rage pulsing through his veins. Red tinged his vision and he lashed out, grabbing the nearest object — the large-screen plasma television. He wrenched it from the wall, catching Gemma off guard. She jumped, spinning around, a blue fleece blanket in her arms, watching in open astonishment as Jacob split the television in half. It snapped with a resounding crack, but no one would hear. The Stynes had paid to anonymously upgrade the guests on either side of Sam's room to executive suites on a different floor.

Breathing heavily, Jacob hurled the broken pieces onto Dean's bed. He pulled a knife from a concealed sheath inside his jacket and viciously stabbed it down on the mattress where he imagined Dean would lie.

"Jacob!" Gemma protested, her voice riddled with shock — this was not acceptable Styne behavior.

Jacob didn't care. He pictured Dean on the bed and stabbed the mattress ferociously, again and again and again… Sam's tattoo was gone, but that could be rectified. His scars, on the other hand… How could Dean allow it? He was supposed to protect the boy!

What if Jacob had been too late?

They could've come here and found Dean… alone.

Sam gone.

The thought made him nauseous with anger and it was all Jacob could do not to scream. Somehow he managed to restrain himself, taking his anger out on the bed. If he didn't vent now and get it out of his system, he would surely kill Dean on sight, and unfortunately, his family would not forgive such hastiness — they needed Dean alive for questioning.

Meanwhile, Gemma stepped over to Sam, brow furrowed as she searched for the source of Jacob's outrage. It didn't take but a moment for her to observe the blights on Sam's wrists, and she cocked her head in bewilderment. Clearly, the boy's well-being meant the world to Jacob, and she wondered at his devotion to a hunter.

No… Not just a hunter. A legacy. A psychic. A demon's chosen one.

Sam was special. Unique. Gemma would be wise to treat him with as much dignity as she could afford without releasing him — he was far too valuable for them to lose. And so, she brushed some of the hair from his face and tucked the blanket around him.

At least Jacob's vandalism would not set them back at all. Gemma had already spoken to the resort's management, "extending" the Winchesters' vacation for another week. The housekeeping staff would not discover this disaster anytime soon. And thanks to Giles tampering with the security cameras, the Stynes would not appear on any video footage when the police came to investigate. Jacob could afford this little outburst, and Gemma would not bring it up later — for it still might jeopardize his reputation. Gemma preferred Jacob over Dario, and the sooner he surpassed the buffoon, the happier she would be.

It took Jacob a few minutes to collect himself. He sat kneeling by the punctured bed, shoulders heaving, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his flushed face. But at least he had ceased his onslaught — his grip had loosened on the now-stationary knife.

"Jacob," Gemma murmured, drawing his attention back to the matter at hand. "We have to go. Sooner or later, the chloroform will wear off. We mustn't linger." As she spoke, she slid behind the wheelchair and turned Sam to face the door. If anyone happened to see them in the hallway or on the elevator, it would look less suspicious with her pushing the chair — attractive blond women could get away with anything, especially when dressed up the way she was.

Jacob rose to his feet, still tense, but more-or-less composed. He sheathed his knife and cast a somber look at Sam. For a moment, Gemma thought he might say something, but he quickly decided against it, and hastened to the door, which he held open. Gemma gracefully maneuvered the wheelchair out into the hallway — Sam was a large man, and it took considerable finesse to keep him upright, but Gemma was a Styne. She had strength and experience on her side.

After checking to make sure they were alone, Gemma steered Sam towards the elevator, Jacob following close behind. He reached out to press the 'down' button, and the doors pinged open immediately. Even in Vegas, the elevators didn't see much use at this hour — at least not at this resort. Good. The sooner they were in the van, the better.

Gemma easily wheeled Sam onto the lift, positioning him on the far side to make room for Jacob. But then, as the doors slid closed, their young prize let out a quiet moan. Gemma's eyes widened and she reflexively grasped Sam's shoulder — he shifted minutely in his seat, still unconscious, but beginning to stir. If he woke too soon… She glanced over at Jacob in alarm.

He was already on the move, retrieving the necessary supplies from his pocket. Handing the bottle over to Gemma, which she swiftly uncapped, he opened the Ziploc bag and pulled out the white cloth.

Sam's head rolled from one side to the other, in a futile effort to lift it up.

"Hurry!" Gemma whispered, dumping a liberal amount of chloroform onto the cloth.

"It's all right," Jacob replied, suddenly at ease. As furious as he had been just a few short minutes ago, now that Sam required his attention, he was able to relax. Gemma stepped aside, giving Jacob the space he needed to address the problem, watching in fascination. She had never seen such a strange display of attachment.

Sam let out another moan, shifting again beneath the blanket, awareness returning, but not quickly enough. Jacob moved behind him, out of his line of sight, and reached around with the cloth in hand.

It was almost like Sam could sense it coming. He groaned, rolling his head away, almost managing a faint protest before Jacob calmly cupped the cloth back over his mouth and nose. Gemma felt the tension ease out of her neck as Jacob eased Sam's head back against his stomach, absently brushing his fingers through Sam's hair. All was well. Still too groggy to resist, Sam helplessly breathed in the fumes. The danger of him waking was officially gone. Jacob smiled, wrapping his other arm around Sam's chest, resting his chin on the top of his head as he felt his brother relax. He inhaled, basking in the proximity of his captive.

By then, the elevator had made its descent into the underground garage, and the doors once again rumbled open. "Time to go," Gemma said, screwing the cap back onto the bottle. Jacob straightened himself up and sealed the cloth back in its Ziploc bag. While Gemma wheeled Sam out of the elevator, handing Jacob the bottle as she went, he returned both items to his pocket.

Instead of taking Sam to the black cargo van where they had stored Dean, Gemma aimed for a second van parked next to it. Why keep the boys in the same vehicle? They would be more troublesome together, and Gemma was not inclined to give them any advantage, however slim. Besides, Dean would not make it to Shreveport in one piece, riding with Jacob. That much had become obvious.

Still, as they passed by the first van, Gemma knocked on it, alerting Dario and Giles to their arrival. While Giles remained in the vehicle to supervise Dean, Dario eagerly jumped out, searching for Sam with an inquisitive glint in his eyes. Not surprising. Sam was a mystery to them all — except Jacob — and if Gemma knew Dario, he was eager to 'inspect' the boy.

"Get the door," she told him curtly, nodding at the second van. He promptly obeyed, casting a brief look at Sam as he went. Thankfully, Jacob didn't seem to notice. He was too preoccupied with Sam to see anyone else. He moved the blanket, handing it to Gemma, and eased Sam out of the chair, lifting him up over his shoulder. Dario watched intently as Jacob climbed into the van, still hauling their captive, while Gemma collapsed the wheelchair.

Jacob crouched down, lowering Sam gently to the floor, taking care not to let his head drop. The van jostled as Dario and Gemma came in after him, the former sliding the door shut to block out prying eyes. Then, Dario reached for a duffel bag that had been stored in the far corner of the cargo space, and dragged it over to their captive, where Gemma unzipped it. She proceeded to pull out several long coils of rope, a pile of cloth, and a blue velvet bag. She passed some rope to Jacob, who reached for Sam's arms, hesitating when he touched them. Those scars… They looked so painful. If Jacob applied the rope, would it cause further damage? He didn't want to hurt Sam — too much — and he found himself stroking the scars reluctantly.

But there was nothing he could do. His green eyes took stock of Dario, who was in the process of binding Sam's legs. Exposing his brotherly affection to Gemma had been one thing, but it would not be wise to share it with Dario. The son of a bitch could not be trusted — he would certainly take advantage of it. Jacob pursed his lips, frustration welling inside of him. But for Sam's own safety, he had to be indifferent — at least on the surface. With a sigh, he focused back on Sam's arms, crossing them scar-to-scar, and wrapped the rope tightly around the outside of his wrists. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

"Ready?" he asked, glancing at Dario, who nodded. Together, they dragged Sam across the floor and positioned him upright, so he could sit leaning against the far side of the van.

"Let me," Gemma offered, a bundle of cloth in her hand as she knelt down on Sam's other side. Jacob nodded, rising to his feet to clip a short cargo strap onto a bracket high up on the van's wall. Meanwhile, Gemma wadded up a cloth and eased it gently between Sam's lips, packing it in as much as possible. The boy was still unconscious and gave no reaction as she went on to wrap a bandana over his mouth, cinching it tightly around his head. Then, she fingered the blue velvet bag. Jacob glanced down in time to see her open it, and a rush of alarm flared through him.

Reaching down, he grabbed her wrist, catching her by surprise. "Are you _sure_ he'll be able to breathe with that thing on?"

Gemma rolled her eyes and offered him a confident smile. "It's enchanted; Mother says he'll be fine."

Brilliant. Because reassurance from the family's most inept spellcaster would obviously make him feel better. Jacob scowled, clearly skeptical, which only earned him a smirk from Dario.

Gemma sighed. "If you're worried, just keep an eye on the boy. Worst case, you'll have to loosen the drawstrings, but I promise you, he's not going to suffocate."

Jacob dropped her wrist, unconvinced, but out of options. Sam's abilities were too powerful to remain unchecked. They had to restrict him somehow, and the wardings that covered the mansion could not be transferred to the vehicle. As long as they were on the road, such physical encumbrances were necessary. Jacob brushed Sam's hair one last time, then made room for Gemma to slip the bag over his head, pulling the drawstrings tightly around his neck.

On the bright side, at least it meant Jacob's presence remained a secret. When Sam woke up, he wouldn't have any idea that his brother — his rightful brother — had returned for him. And the surprise would be worth every hassle — a memory Jacob would always cherish.

But that was a thought for later. Raising the boy's limp arms up over his head, Jacob clipped the free carabiner from the cargo strap directly to the rope, out of the way of prying fingers. He adjusted the strap, shortening it to remove the extra slack, keeping Sam's hands well above his head. They couldn't allow him to pull off his hood.

Once Sam was safely secured to the wall, Jacob slipped two fingers under the neck of his hood, feeling for the boy's pulse. It was steady and strong, as it should be. He could still breathe; his chest maintained a peaceful rhythm, in and out, putting Jacob's mind at ease — for the moment.

"Are we done?" Dario asked abruptly, crossing his arms. Jacob stiffened, clenching his teeth. The more time he spent with his cousin, the less he liked him. But, as much as he wanted to rip his throat out, Jacob settled for giving him a terse nod.

"He'll need supervision," he advised his relatives, climbing to his feet. He thought back to the Stynes' safe house in Atlanta, where Sam had broken his own thumb to escape his handcuffs. "You'd be surprised by his resourcefulness. Sam's nothing if not stubborn and persistent." He smiled, his gaze lingering on his unconscious brother.

"Very well," Dario said with a shrug. "I'll drive."

Jacob grimaced, casting a resentful look at Gemma. "I thought you were riding with me?"

She stood up, shaking her head while smoothing out her dress. "Oh I was," she acknowledged, a twinkle in her eye. "But Dario keeps telling me to have fun, and there's a certain… toy in the other van." Dario grinned, evidently excited on Gemma's behalf.

Jacob, on the other hand, suppressed a groan. He would have preferred stuffing Dean in the trunk of a sedan, but it wasn't his decision. Besides, Gemma was shaping into his one potential ally, and he would rather not spite her — at least not yet. "As you wish. Shall we head out? We've got a lot of ground to cover."

Gemma squeezed his arms and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Jacob." With a bounce in her step, she skipped over to the door, slid it open, and hopped out of the van. When they first set out on this retrieval mission, she never thought she would feel this way about her primary target. But something about Dean had struck a chord with her, and for the first time in… ages… Gemma felt giddy. She sashayed over to the first van, where she knew Giles was waiting — ever so faithfully — with her little prize, and eagerly let herself in.

Sure enough, Dean remained tied up on the ground, writhing deliciously on his side, with Giles watching from the driver's seat. As Gemma pulled the door shut, both men glanced over at her. Dean stiffened, growling through his gag, while Giles turned his head away, too submissive to initiate a conversation with his mistress. Gemma ignored him, focusing instead on her seething captive. She grinned. "Did you miss me, _härzli_?"

Dean glared at her with a fierce expression, but he still shrank back when she crouched beside him. "You look so comfortable now," she mocked, running her fingers up his arm, making him shiver. Dario had spent his time well, wielding more rope to tether Dean's wrists and ankles to the van's floor anchors. Unfortunately for the hunter, the space between the anchors did not match his height, forcing him to bend his legs, and it looked anything _but_ comfortable. Gemma wondered how difficult it had been for Dario to arrange Dean in that position, and she relished the thought of Dean's resistance.

"It's safer this way," she crooned, splaying her fingers on his chest. Dean grunted, shaking his head, attempting to dislodge his gag — unsuccessfully. "It'll keep you from sliding around and hurting yourself. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Her hand tracked down his chest, and he bucked angrily, but he couldn't stop her.

For all his strength, for all his fire… there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Gemma grinned, her imagination running wild. "Don't worry," she said, snagging a fistful of his hair with her other hand. "We have your brother in a separate vehicle." Dean's eyes widened. "Dario's taking very good care of him, which means you and I have all the time we need to get properly acquainted."

Dean swallowed hard, a tiny whimper escaping his throat.

He was in way over his head.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	12. Trapped

**_Author's Note:_** _Just to be on the safe side, we bumped up the rating to this story. We don't intend to show anything explicit, but this chapter is mature and suggestive enough to warrant some extra caution. Please be advised… whumpage ahead!_

 **SPN**

 **(US-93, Outskirts of Kingman, Arizona… January 16, 2008)**

Consciousness was fleeting, allowing him brief moments of awareness, then dragging him back under. He had to wake up… he felt the dread in his stomach… but every time he tried to rouse himself, the darkness overwhelmed him. He felt stiff… his muscles sore… his mouth like cotton… He opened his eyes, saw nothing, and quickly sank back into the empty void. It seemed to go on forever…

But then he groaned, assaulted by the stench of stale air — hot and suffocating. Had they left the heat on…? But why? They were in Vegas… Lifting his head, Sam felt it swim. Why? He hadn't been drinking… What the hell? He tried calling for Dean, but quickly realized… his mouth was packed full… and his tongue was hampered by the stuffing.

Suddenly awake, Sam's eyes snapped open, and he found himself enshrouded by darkness. His mouth, wrists, knees and ankles had all been compressed with painfully-tight bindings, and his arms had been drawn over his head. When he yanked on them, he could hear the unmistakable sound of metal clanking against metal. He tossed his head, conscious of the oppressive hood and the gag wrapped firmly around his mouth… but they did not budge, no matter how hard he tried dislodging them.

Growing desperate, he searched his memory for an explanation. Images flashed of Dean with a girl, the Ladyheart concert, the shower…

And a weight pinning him down in his bed.

Sam's chest tightened as panic set in, cutting off his breath. Someone had been in his room! And there had been nothing but darkness ever since.

What the hell happened? Who did this to him?

And more importantly, where the hell was Dean?!

 **SPN**

A frantic moan from the back of the van caught Jacob's attention.

"Someone's awake," Dario laughed, keeping his eyes on the road.

Tapping the switch above their heads, Jacob turned on the interior light and glanced around his seat to observe their cargo. Sam was fully conscious, the muscles in his arms bulging as he grappled with his restraints. In hindsight, Jacob was glad he tied the ropes properly — his little brother was always stubborn. Sam's body twisted, his head shaking wildly as he tried to remove the hood, his chest rising and falling quickly, a wave of muffled objections emanating from his mouth.

Jacob unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed into the back, crouching down beside his brother. He wanted so desperately to comfort the boy, to let him know that he was home and safe… but he couldn't with Dario in the van. It was too risky, so he kept his fists clenched, away from his brother, unable to show him affection.

Sam's moans became short, sharp barks and, though they were muffled, Jacob could understand them, and a scowl darkened his expression.

Dean.

 _His_ little brother was calling for Dean!

Shooting his hand out, Jacob grabbed Sam by the throat, holding him still. The boy squirmed uselessly, whimpering beneath his hold. Ever so slowly, Jacob squeezed his neck, making his unspoken command abundantly clear, and sure enough, his brother grew quiet, his resistance waning.

 _Thatta boy_ …

Sam would have to endure extensive retraining, there was no question about that. But he had not forgotten all his past lessons.

Jacob smiled. They were off to a good start.

 **SPN**

The hand around his throat wasn't squeezing tightly enough to hurt, but the warning was perfectly clear. Sam's heart hammered in his chest as he breathed heavily through his nose. The hood covering his face was stifling, adding to his panic. He could already feel sweat trickling down his cheek, and the hot air wasn't reaching his lungs fast enough.

But then, thankfully, the hand released him and Sam forced himself to relax, to calm down. If he didn't, he was screwed — he'd never escape.

Shaking the last vestiges of grogginess from his head, Sam blinked in the darkness, listening hard. The hood dampened much of the sound around him, but he could hear an engine and, judging by the vibrations around him, Sam knew he was on the move. The wall behind him was hard — metal — as was the floor. A cargo van, probably. And since Dean had given no response when he tried calling out to him, Sam had to assume his brother was either absent or unconscious. But assumptions weren't good enough: he had to make sure.

As much as possible under the circumstances, Sam tried to center himself. Then, reaching out with his mind, he tried scanning for his brother. Except…

It didn't work. He couldn't sense a thing, much less his brother.

Sam's breathing hitched in alarm. What—?

 _It's fine. Nothing to worry about. Just try something else._

Somehow, he didn't believe the small voice in his head, but Sam did as he was told. Telekinesis was more difficult when he couldn't see, but not impossible. He focused on the rope around his wrists and pictured the knots coming loose.

Nothing.

 **SPN**

Another low moan and frustrated thrash against his restraints brought a smile to Jacob's lips. By now, Sam must have tried using his abilities, only to find them… ineffective. His current struggle no doubt meant he was realizing the full extent of his vulnerability, and he was understandably agitated. His abilities had become an ingrained part of his life, and to have them stripped away would naturally upset him.

For once, Jacob could have praised his aunt — she wasn't always reliable, but the entrapment sigils embroidered on Sam's hood were clearly doing their job. As promised, the boy was contained — for now.

Satisfied, Jacob stood up and returned to the front of the van. He could neither comfort his brother nor speak to him, so for the time being, he would leave him alone — let him control his breathing and adjust to his predicament. It was the least Jacob could do for the boy.

 **SPN**

Sam's abilities had been suppressed, but he could still perceive his captor's retreat. They hadn't said a word and that was… troubling. Usually, in Sam's experience, captors _always_ wanted to gloat — like the Carrigans. The present silence left him increasingly nervous.

Against his better judgment, his mind's eye brought up an unwanted memory — one where he was lying on his stomach amidst stacks of wooden crates, with Rhett Styne towering over him, roughly tightening his bindings every time Sam struggled.

He inhaled deeply, shoving the memory down. It was from three years ago, when he was first captured by the Stynes, and dwelling on it would not help him now. Although… it was comforting to remind himself that Jacob was dead. No matter who these people were, they couldn't possibly be as bad as Sam's would-be brother.

Still… who the hell were they? And what the hell did they want?

He could rule out the Carrigans — they were definitely dead. But what did that leave him? Who else knew about his abilities? The demon…?

Sam's heart stopped. Was he on his way to Azazel?

No. He couldn't think about that. He had to focus on escaping. By any means necessary.

 **SPN**

It was dark in the van's cargo hold. Since leaving the city, not even the dazzling lights of Vegas filtered in through the windshield. Dean grunted, arms and legs straining persistently against his restraints. There had to be a way for him to loosen the ropes and slip free — the sooner the better… but so far, he wasn't having much luck. Dammit… so much for their vacation!

Gemma was a nightmare. She had spent at least five minutes harassing Dean before deciding she didn't want an audience. Clasping his chin, she'd kissed him hard over his gag, then bit his ear. It was sickening and painful, and his blatant disgust made her giggle. Running her fingers roughly through his hair, she had turned away, joining her accomplice in the front of the van. After that, Dean was left to stew, and he passed the time frantically trying to escape. Unfortunately, the ropes were tight, and the knots were strong. He wasn't going anywhere.

Despite the tethers anchoring him to the floor, he still swayed with the van as it took sharp turns. Thankfully, the road was smooth, with very little bumps, but nothing could prevent the tension from mounting in his neck and shoulders. Who were these people? What the hell did they want?

 _"_ _We have your brother in a separate vehicle."_ Gemma's words replayed in his mind. _"Dario's taking very good care of him…"_

They knew Sam was psychic, which meant they were prepared for his abilities. Dean didn't doubt for a moment that they were capable of overpowering Sam, and the thought filled him with panic, especially when he remembered Dario's inquiry.

 _"_ _What about the brother? Might I have some fun with him?"_

Hell. No. Dario was pure evil, and his definition of 'gentle' left a lot to be desired. After Gemma lured Dean to the van and locked him in with Dario, the bastard had proven himself to be every bit as sadistic as Dean feared. His words alone were repulsive, and if he had free reign to hurt Sam, the kid would be tortured. Brutally. Dean had to help him — now.

Channeling his fear into anger, and his anger into sheer determination, Dean thrashed wildly against his restraints. It was getting harder to breathe through his gag, but he refused to rest. Sam was in danger… Dean couldn't afford to stop for anything.

 **SPN**

By Sam's estimation, they had been driving for over an hour since he'd woken up. In that time, no one had come to check on him and the van showed no signs of slowing down. Taking advantage of his apparent solitude, Sam quietly tested his restraints. They were tight — painfully so, particularly around his wrists. The coarse material rubbed against his skin, but thankfully his captor had been mindful of his scars, winding the rope around the outside of his wrists.

From what he could tell, his arms were hanging well above his head, anchored to the wall by a carabiner. His legs were also bound — at both his knees and ankles — but… by some oversight, they had not been tethered to anything. If he was careful, he could pull himself upward, and once his head was close enough to his hands, he might be able to remove the hood. And if he had to wager a bet, the hood was responsible for suppressing his abilities — otherwise, they would have used a simple blindfold. If he could pull the hood off, he could free himself.

But… he had to be stealthy, or they would stop him. Were they even watching him? He couldn't tell… So, for the sake of caution, he sat biding his time, giving the occasional token struggle to see if he attracted attention.

He didn't.

Bringing his knees up slightly, Sam pushed into the floor with his heels, gently sliding himself backwards, closer to the wall. In the process, he felt some relief in his arms — the carabiner must have been attached to a cargo strap, tethering him to the wall — and now that he wasn't dangling limply, the tautness began to slacken. He pulled his arms down, closer to his head, restoring the strap's tautness so the metal clips wouldn't clang against the wall. Then, he paused, holding his breath, waiting.

No one came.

If his tether was a cargo strap, maybe he could unclip the carabiner from the wall anchor and release his arms. That would be less conspicuous than trying to clamber all the way to his feet.

Slowly, he reached up with his arms, running his numb fingers along the rough edge of the strap, searching for the anchor to the wall. But the strap was too long — it continued up above his reach. Damn it.

It was fine. He just needed to get himself up a little higher. He could do that.

This time, he bent his legs fully, drawing his bound feet up next to his butt. Again, he stopped. He waited. It was a grueling process, but it would be worth it. He heard nothing… perceived no one coming.

Using the wall as support, Sam slowly began to push himself upwards, his fingers reaching.

 **SPN**

The drive was already proving to be arduous for Jacob — especially compared to his first road trip with Sam. He couldn't stop thinking about it. The boy had not yet joined the family, and Jacob, along with Rhett and Mason, had passed the time by taking playful jabs at him. It had been a long drive, but it went by so quickly. The good old days.

Unfortunately, Dario was nothing like Rhett or Mason.

Dario was an ass.

They had both been silent since leaving Las Vegas, primarily because Jacob was trying to build up the surprise for Sam, but also because they simply didn't have anything to say to each other. Jacob could practically feel the condescension rolling off his cousin, and it was irksome. Dario was _not_ his superior, despite their current standing, and eventually, Jacob would recover his rightful position. And when he did… he would make the blond thug regret his arrogance.

Sighing heavily, Jacob brushed a hand back through his hair. He was bored — impatient. Sam had made a few half-hearted struggles, but nothing too rebellious. In fact, he'd been quiet for a while. Jacob's eyes narrowed.

He'd been too quiet...

Switching on the interior light again, he turned around in his seat, eyes widening when he saw Sam half-crouched, his hands creeping blindly up the wall, getting dangerously close to the carabiner fastening him to the anchor.

"Shit!" he growled, fumbling with his seatbelt.

Dario's head snapped round. "What?"

Jacob ignored him as he stormed into the back of the van, grabbing the duffel bag as he went. Sam's fingers were almost around the carabiner… Jacob reached him just in time, grabbing the rope around Sam's knees and yanking it hard. Sam dropped with a muffled yelp, his arms going taut above his head as he collapsed to the floor. He twisted, trying to kick out, but Jacob kept a tight hold on his bindings, forcing his legs flat on the floor before straddling them, facing his feet, using his weight to pin his brother down. Sam thrashed, bellowing incoherent profanities through his gag.

"Can you manage him?" Dario asked from the front, and Jacob shot him a livid glare through the rearview mirror, which his cousin took as his answer. Incompetent idiot! Dario had been responsible for securing Sam's legs, but apparently he had only done half the job. Jacob should have checked his work, but he had been too preoccupied by Sam's hood, worried about the potential for suffocation under the heavy velvet. Son of a bitch. This would teach him to rely on Dario!

While his brother squirmed beneath him, Jacob grabbed another cargo strap out of the duffel bag and hooked it through the rope at Sam's ankles. He slid down the boy's legs, holding them in place as the boy bucked, reaching forwards to clip the strap to a metal ring in the floor. He adjusted it, shortening it to remove the extra slack — Sam no longer deserved his leniency.

Sitting back on his heels, Jacob breathed out slowly, calming his panic. So much for boredom. Just because he wanted some excitement did not mean he relished the thought of escape attempts.

Gone were the days when catching the boy had been like roping a calf at a rodeo. Sam was much too dangerous now — at least until they had him in a controlled environment. Then they could afford to have some fun. But as long as they were on the road, it seemed every precaution would be necessary.

When Jacob slid off the boy's legs, Sam immediately jerked them, trying to pull them up. Jacob expected a whimper of defeat, but instead Sam thrashed uselessly against his restraints, shouting angrily through his gag.

He had so much fire now — more than Jacob remembered. Breaking him would be… so deeply rewarding.

 **SPN**

Damn it! He'd been so freaking close! Now Sam's legs were snared: stretched out in front of him, causing the rope around his wrists to bite into his skin as the cargo strap pulled taut. The weight of his captor disappeared from his legs and Sam tensed, fully expecting repercussions for his actions. Defiance was never tolerated by kidnappers…

But nothing came.

No punch, no kick… nothing.

Hell, even Jacob had been known to slap Sam for struggling too much. Sometimes he did worse, depending on the extent of Sam's disobedience. Sometimes he took his displeasure out on other people — innocent victims — and he made Sam watch. If Jacob were here now, Sam dreaded to think of his punishment…

But no. Jacob was dead.

Which left him trapped with silent, faceless entities who seemed content to leave him in the dark. Sam had no idea what he was dealing with, and the uncertainty was excruciating.

Sagging against the wall of the van, Sam let his head fall back, defeated. He was exhausted, and it would take a while before he was ready to attempt something else.

Whatever that might be…

 **SPN**

Jacob wasn't sure how long he stood in the back of the van, towering over his brother, watching him stew… but it was long enough to give the boy a false sense of security. Sam dropped his head back against the wall, breathing heavily as he tried to rest, under the impression that his behavior had been pardoned.

Jacob couldn't fault him for trying to escape — it was in his nature. Besides, Dario had been negligent; the blame belonged to him. Still… Sam's efforts were nearly successful, and if he wasn't disciplined, he would never learn. This was such a teachable moment, Jacob couldn't just let it go. He had to be firm and consistent with the boy. Whether Sam realized it or not, his retraining had already begun, and there would be no indulgences — at least not until he earned some privileges.

Resolved, Jacob took another moment to consider his options. As always, the punishment should fit the crime… He had to give it some careful thought.

 **SPN**

Sam was just getting his heartbeat to slow down when someone grabbed the cold, numb fingers of his right hand. He grunted, instantly on guard, heart racing all over again. He tried jerking his arms down, but the cargo strap restrained him — and when he tried clenching his hand into a fist, his captor easily held on to his index and middle fingers.

Sam's racing heart picked up speed, and he frantically tried kicking his legs, but to no avail — they were lashed too tightly to the floor.

He felt his captor adjusting his grip, his intentions painfully obvious.

 _No, no, no, no, no!_

"Mmph!" Sam bucked hard, shaking his head vigorously, trying to beg, but helpless to get the words out but the cloth in his mouth held his tongue down. The ropes around his legs were unforgiving… the more he struggled, the more they dug in, burning his skin despite his sweatpants. But it was nothing compared to the pain Sam knew was coming.

He let out a strangled moan, his pleas caught in his gag when he felt his captor's hand slowly rotate. It was a calculated movement, measured and torturously slow. Sweat drenched Sam's shirt, mocking his futile resistance. His breathing grew increasingly ragged. Beneath the shroud of his hood, tears pricked in his eyes.

Suddenly, his captor wrenched his fingers sideways.

Sam screamed, stars exploding over his vision, agony lancing down his arm. His muffled cries were incoherent and agonized, tears mingling with sweat. His captor released his hand, but Sam couldn't move his broken fingers even if he tried.

A moment later, his captor seized his neck again, but this time, Sam had no control over his whimpers. He writhed weakly, lost in the terror of his sensory deprivation. Unable to see, barely able to hear, and struggling to breathe, he had nothing to distract him from the excruciating pain radiating from his hand.

Oh, god… where was Dean?

 **SPN**

There was no longer any doubt in Gemma's mind: Dean Winchester had more endurance than any human had a right to have. The more she listened to him squirming in the back, the more her mouth watered. They were driving east along I-40, with Flagstaff behind them, and the sun rising straight ahead. In the hours since they had left Nevada, Dean had refused to settle down. Every once in a while, he took a short break to catch his breath, but never for more than a minute or two. His energy was impressive, and Gemma wondered how long it would last.

As reluctant as she was to partake of the hunter in front of Giles, she would also deeply regret missing out if Dean succumbed to exhaustion. And she didn't know how many chances she'd get to be alone with him back at the mansion. She had to savor him now… while he was still fresh.

Mind made up, Gemma turned her gaze over to Giles and reached her hand up to grasp his shoulder. He stiffened, but did not object, listening carefully as she said, "Pay attention to the road. Ignore whatever happens in the cargo hold." It was not a command he could defy — Gemma's ability to mesmerize had the power to control even him. He might still catch glimpses through his trance, which made it less than ideal… but Gemma was ravenous.

Satisfied, she slipped out of the passenger seat and made her way into the back. Even with the sun out, it was shadowy in the cargo hold, but her eyes quickly adjusted, and she licked her lips at the sight of Dean on the ground. He froze, glaring up at her with a combination of wariness and hatred in his stunning green eyes which reminded her of a caged dragon. She shivered in excitement.

"Hello again, _härzli_ ," she cooed, kneeling beside him. He bucked, his bent legs yanking on their tether, the metal clips clanking as he desperately tried to kick out. She grinned, leaning over him to inspect his restraints. Dario and Giles were both skilled with ropework, so she didn't expect to see any weak points, but it never hurt to double-check, especially considering Dean's resistance. Much to her amusement, everything remained in order. She glanced back at Dean's face, clucking her tongue. "All that effort, and what have you accomplished? Unless you wanted to catch my attention, in which case, bravo." She slipped her hand under his shirt, reaching up to feel his abs. They were so firm…

Dean grunted, twisting away from her, but he had nowhere to go. Gemma's hand sought after him, and she roughly rolled him back. He growled, eyes bright with fury while she purred with pleasure. "I must admit, I've never had a man resist me before. It's a new experience, and… mmm… you have no idea what a treat that makes this." She spent another moment stroking his muscles, coated in a thin sheen of sweat, closing her eyes to relish the sensation. Slowly, her hand began to travel south.

"Mmph!" Dean thrashed helplessly, and she opened her eyes to grin at him, her fingers playfully brushing the skin just under the waistline of his jeans.

"Oh _härzli,_ I could make you beg for this," she breathed in absolute certainty, and he froze at the confidence in her voice, his heart thudding. "You have no idea how easy it would be for me… One touch, and I could make you my willing slave… Remember how much you wanted me on the casino floor? _That_ was nothing compared to what I could do to you…" She saw the realization dawning in his eyes, and he shook his head, obviously disgusted. She sighed dramatically. "You're right. We should be honest with each other. It's more exciting."

She withdrew her hand, her smile waning as she considered him thoughtfully. "You're a smart man, Dean," she observed. "So I only need to say this once. If you bite me, I will remove each of your teeth, one by one. Am I clear?"

He narrowed his eyes, carefully processing her words. He could only bite her if she removed the gag and came in close enough — which was no doubt her plan. While he didn't enjoy the gag, it was nevertheless a protective barrier between them. He knew it, and she knew it — which made the decision agonizing for him. But he had questions, and the gag was stifling, so he ultimately nodded his agreement.

"Good boy," Gemma crooned, patting his cheek before sliding the bandana down his face, letting it hang around his neck. She nudged her fingers through his lips and gently pulled out the cloth stuffing his mouth. "There… That's better…"

He took a moment to move his jaw, working out the tension, and licked his parched lips. All the while, his gaze remained fixed on her. "Who are you people?"

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reached her hands up to extract the pins from her bun. She shook her head, allowing her golden locks to tumble over her shoulders, combing her fingers through her hair. "Oh, did I forget to mention?" she asked sweetly. "How inconsiderate of me… I apologise, _härzli_. My name is Gemma… Gemma Styne." She wasn't sure how Dean would react, so she watched, waiting with bated breath.

His face paled in the dim light, but after his momentary shock, any fear he might have felt gave way to anger. "You bitch!" He wrenched furiously on his restraints, with no sign of wearing out. Gemma's whole body tingled in delight. "I swear to God!" he shouted. "I'm going to kill you!"

She laughed. "The more you try, the more fun I'll have. So, by all means, _härzli_ , do your worst." With one hand, she reached under his head and grabbed a fistful of hair, jerking it forcefully so he could not look away. He winced, glaring at her with daggers in his eyes. "Remember what I said about your teeth," she warned him.

"Go to Hell!"

"Oh, I've been there more than once," she replied, leaning over him. "And the stories I could tell…" She brought her lips to his ear. "They would keep you up at night. But I plan on doing that anyway."

"Pass," he firmly declined, as if he had a choice.

"Relax, _härzli_ ," she taunted, sliding her free hand down his chest, towards his belt. "There's only so much I'm willing to do in a moving vehicle…" She played with the buckle, teasing him as he squirmed. "I won't ride you too hard. Yet. But consider this a preview." She ran her tongue up his cheek, tasting the sweat on his face, before kissing him ardently on the mouth. With her fingers tangled in his hair, holding his head still, he could not turn away — although he tried, bucking frantically. Gemma held on, thrusting her tongue deep in his mouth. Delicious.

She could not wait to get him home.

 **SPN**

Resisting the urge to bite took most of Dean's concentration as Gemma's tongue explored his mouth. Now that her hair was down, she smelled strongly of vanilla, and her free hand continued to fondle his lower abs, her fingers creeping frequently beneath his jeans. His skin crawled, and he struggled helplessly, the ropes biting into his wrists, holding fast when he tried kicking his legs. Forced to endure the assault, his teeth were his only defense, and it went against every instinct he had not to use them. The more Gemma pushed in, moaning in pleasure, the more his cheeks burned in humiliation. But God help him if he retaliated…

Instead, he did the only thing he could — he internalized, doing his damnedest to block her out. In the back of his mind, away from her assault, his thoughts were racing. The Stynes were dead. They _had_ to be dead. Otherwise, he and Sam were screwed. Gemma and Dario would cart them off to their magical lair and feed them to a hungry reaper in their damn reincarnation ritual. Unless, of course, they were still buddies with the yellow-eyed demon, in which case, Sam would be spared — and subsequently brainwashed. The memory of his 'bond' with Jacob had yet to fade from Dean's mind, and it chilled him to the bone. He knew Sam would resist for as long as possible, but he also knew that everyone had their limits — everyone could be broken — including his brother.

How could this be happening? The Stynes were _dead_! Dean and his family had moved on with their lives!

The longer Gemma kissed him, the faster his heart fluttered. For the most part, he'd been able to conceal his fear beneath his hatred, but her unwanted advances were quickly chipping away at his defenses. He could barely breathe — the smell of vanilla was overwhelming. Chest heaving, he closed his eyes and prayed that Sam — wherever he was — could somehow hear him.

 _You're gonna be okay, kiddo… Whatever they do to you, it doesn't change a damn thing… You're still a Winchester… You're still my brother… It's gonna be okay…_

 **SPN**

 **So this was the last chapter that was posted under the original publication - I'll be starting to add the new chapters, but not as quickly as they're still a work in progress!**

 **Please review!**


	13. On the Hunt

**Hi all! So this is roughly where I'm taking over the writing on my own (except for the next couple of chapters). But, as I said in the prologue, I mapped this out with MJ so the plot is still hers at heart too – I'm just putting the words to the page. Thank you to those of you who have come across with me and reviewed again! I won't be able to post as quickly as I have been - writing was much quicker with two of us at the helm, but I will do my best.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **SPN**

 **(I-40, West of Amarillo, Texas… January 16, 2008)**

It had been nearly two weeks since Benny Lafitte had first come across the disturbing scent that plagued him like a perpetual case of deja vu. Unsettling and familiar, it smelled like a human, only… different. And while vampires could always track the scent of people they'd encountered — potential prey — usually, such smells would fade into the background over time. Except significant ones. For this particular smell to catch Benny's attention — out of nowhere, amidst all the others — it _had_ to be significant. And yet, he couldn't place it.

When he tried to analyze the unpleasant stench, he caught a strange whiff of sulfur tampering with the human smell. A part of him assumed demonic possession; it wasn't the first time he'd come across a tainted human. From what the vampire understood, courtesy of Ellen Harvelle and John Winchester, a swarm of demons were on the move. Apparently, war was brewing. But that didn't seem right with this scent; the sulfur wasn't nearly pungent enough to signify a demon possession.

It had to be something else.

At first, Benny tried to ignore the nagging stench. It wasn't any of his business. But then, it worsened. It went from human-with-a-trace-of-sulfur to human-with-a-heap-of… death. He could think of no other way to describe it. The last time he had smelled anything remotely similar, he had been hunting the Stynes.

But the Stynes were gone now. Benny had killed Jacob himself. He needed more evidence. He _had_ to investigate.

The problem was, the source of the stench would not stay put. Whenever he thought he was getting close, it would travel somewhere else, which, for a predator like Benny, was frustrating to say the least. He almost had it down in Louisiana, tracking it all the way to the Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans, but, of course, it disappeared. Into the sky, no doubt. Flying after it would be futile — he didn't know the destination.

It must have been somewhere distant and heavily populated, for it took him several days to pick the trail back up again. West. The source of the stench was over a thousand miles to the west. Determined to reach it before it went cold, Benny took off as quickly as possible in a beat-up old truck.

Several hours later, just west of Amarillo, Benny made a startling realization. Not only was the smell getting stronger, signaling its approach… but it was laced alongside the scent of his friends, Sam and Dean Winchester. Damnit… That did not bode well. And Benny wasn't one to believe in coincidence.

The boys were in trouble: he knew it in his gut.

 **SPN**

 **(Gallup, New Mexico… January 16, 2008)**

If Dean ever went to Hell, he imagined it would be something similar to his current situation. He'd never been one to get claustrophobic, but having spent the last few hours — was it really only _hours_? — stuck in the back of a van with Gemma, her stifling personality, and her overbearing ministrations, Dean had a new understanding of the word 'fear.' He'd been on edge the whole time, and he could feel the burning ache in every muscle from his constant struggling. But he refused to broadcast his distress — Gemma was like a viper: one lapse and she'd be on him. With more vehemence than before.

It was obvious that she was getting off on his helplessness, tormenting him all the more because he could not stop her, and while she refrained from going too far, it was only a matter of time until they reached their destination — wherever the hell that was. And the bitch had taken perverse pleasure in describing what she would do to him then. Dean had to escape, but so far, his efforts were in vain. He'd tried everything he could think of, and all he got for it were bruises and torn skin.

Thankfully, for the moment, Gemma was leaving him alone. Sort of. She had stopped kissing him, but remained at his side, content to 'watch the show,' as she'd put it. Dean didn't like giving her the satisfaction, but he couldn't just lie there and do nothing. He had to find a way out of his restraints, so he continued to struggle even under her attentive gaze.

Eventually, however, she returned to the front of the van, probably to check on their progress. To his surprise, she did not force his gag back on — not that that was a comfort: it told him she would be back for more.

And sure enough…

Dean twisted his head up at the sound of her return. She sat down across from him, her legs stretching out beside his head as she leaned back against the wall of the van. He fidgeted, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

She sighed dramatically. "It's a long drive, _härzli_. Would it kill you to chat with me?"

"Stop calling me that," he snarled, his eyes narrowing as he met her gaze head on. He knew he shouldn't bite when she goaded him, and antagonizing her was a terrible idea… but it wasn't in his nature to just roll over.

"It's a term of endearment," she chided, her lips curving in a seductive smile. "You should be grateful I've taken such a shine to you."

Dean scoffed. "Grateful that a psycho Styne-bitch wants to mess around? No thanks."

He expected a glare from her — or a kick. But, instead, Gemma laughed, sliding across the floor until she was next to his head. "Oh, _härzli_ …" She grabbed a fistful of his hair again, yanking his head up, meeting his livid gaze with bright eyes. "Has anyone ever told you that you're cute when you're angry?" She kissed him with bruising ferocity, and his resistance only seemed to encourage her. He growled in mute frustration when she grabbed his jaw with her free hand, squeezing until he was forced to open his mouth and let in her invasive tongue. Her threat from earlier still stood, and he despised himself for cooperating.

Suddenly, she bit his bottom lip, hard, catching him off guard. He gasped in pain while she pulled away, her cheeks flushed, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Now then," she said, almost breathless. "Would you like to chat with me? Or shall we find another way to pass the time?"

"All right! Fine!" Dean snapped at her, fuming indignantly. He didn't want to give in, but if it meant keeping her face off his, what choice did he have?

She gave him a playful wink as she sat back against the wall of the van. "Good boy."

He grimaced, clenching his fists behind his back. "You wanna talk? Tell me what that asshole's doing to my brother!" As bad as it was having Gemma harass him, Dean couldn't imagine what Sam was forced to endure. The possibilities were nauseating, and, every time Dean let himself dwell on it, he felt sick to his stomach.

Gemma cocked her head, feigning confusion. "Who, Dario?" she shrugged, nonchalantly. "I really can't say… I suppose it depends on whether or not he's driving. You have to understand, he gets bored so easily."

Dean's blood ran cold. "If any of you hurt him…"

"You'll what? Bite me?" she laughed, clearly enjoying herself. "We've already discussed what would happen then. Truth is, your brother's past due for some punishment. He killed _my_ brother, and Father is very cross with him."

Dean shuddered. The Stynes weren't always fond of each other, but their family loyalty was ironclad — except for Jacob, who killed Elizabeth in favor of Sam — but Jacob was dead, and from the sound of it, Gemma's father did not share the bastard's obsession. They would not forgive Sam for killing one of their own, that was for sure.

Dean shook his head. "I can guarantee you it was self-defense," he protested, hating the insistence in his tone. Sam didn't need to justify his actions to these monsters.

"Oh, I'm sure," Gemma shrugged, looking almost bored. "But you boys are hunters. Imagine if Sam's heart was ripped out by a werewolf. Would you care if it was self-defense or not?"

"That's different!" Dean snapped, glaring at her, despising her attempt to compare the Styne family to his. "The things we hunt have it coming. Sam's one of the good guys; he didn't deserve the torture you sons of bitches inflicted on him."

"You have a rather loose definition of 'torture'," Gemma retorted, raising an eyebrow at him as she studied her nails. "On the contrary. My relatives were quite generous with him. But I suppose, if Father has anything to say about it, that's bound to change."

The veiled threats were gnawing on Dean's nerves. "Wait, just…" He had to think of something. "Are you even that upset? _Really?_ I mean, I thought your whole family believed everyone's expendable." He was grasping at straws, but it was the best he could come up with. The Stynes were loyal to their family, true, but not necessarily to each other. Hell, when they first met, just over three years ago, Jacob put the good of his family above the life of his actual brother, Eldon. How much could they honestly care about each other? "Whoever Sam killed… did you even mourn his death?"

"Me personally? God no," she admitted, her blue eyes turning hard. "My brother was sadistic, even by my standards."

 _Well, that was saying something._

Dean's heart skipped a beat — he couldn't bear the thought of Sam anywhere near such evil.

Gemma smiled viciously. "I'm actually impressed. My brother could not have been an easy man to take down. You should be proud, _härzli_. Sam didn't kill just any Styne. He killed _the_ Styne. Victor Frankenstein."

Dean scoffed, feigning contempt. He never got the chance to know Victor personally — and only laid eyes on him the one time when Sam was kidnapped — but he understood all too well what a douche the man had been. "You know, you're better off without him. The Stynes value secrecy, right? But thanks to his notoriety, you're all famous. If you ask me, Sam did you lot a favor."

Despite his outward bravado, the thought of Victor always made Dean uncomfortable. Sam rarely spoke of his week in captivity, but the Stynes had been using hostages — like Jessica Moore — to keep him compliant. So how did he manage to kill Victor? Dean didn't know the details, but Sam never would have risked Jessica's safety by attacking any of his captors… unless something had gone terribly wrong — terrible enough to push Sam over the edge — and Dean didn't want to consider the implications.

Gemma smiled, completely unfazed and seemingly impossible to provoke. "For what it's worth, I agree with you. But it can't be helped. Your brother has Styne blood on his hands."

Dean rolled his eyes, masking his alarm under an arrogant smile. "Are you serious? We _all_ have Styne blood on our hands!" _Except for you,_ taunted a nagging voice in the back of his mind. _When did you ever kill a Styne?_ Shame surged through him, but he quickly shoved it down, hopefully before Gemma could spot it. "You freaks should know by now, every time you come after us, _you're_ the ones who get ganked."

Her hand moved to his arm, stroking his tense bicep as she brought her face closer to his. He groaned, twisting his wrists, straining against the rope, but there was no stopping her advance.

"If you're the one to kill me, _härzli_ , I think I'd die happy," she breathed, capturing his mouth with hers, swallowing his protest. God, he was getting sick of this! The hand on his arm traveled slowly down his chest… his stomach… creeping all the past his waistline and grabbing him through his jeans. He growled indignantly, trying to pull away from her mouth, struggling wildly until she had her fill. Her lips curved into a smile against his…

"Untie me," he snarled, ripping away from her, thrashing against his restraints, "and you can die happy right now!"

She laughed. "Oh, Dean, I never thought we'd have this much fun together! And we're barely getting started." She pushed his top shoulder, twisting him as far onto his back as the tether would allow, painfully rotating his bottom shoulder. Then, she swung her leg over him, hitching her skirt up just enough to straddle his waist. He tried dislodging her, but he could barely move.

"Get off me," he snapped, grimacing as she wriggled playfully on top of him, their combined weight crushing his arms against the floor.

"Make me," she goaded, folding herself forwards, edging up his torso. As her face loomed in close to his, something inside Dean finally snapped. With all the force he could muster, he pitched himself forwards, slamming his head against her face. Gemma yelped, rearing up — more in surprise than pain. Still, Dean couldn't help but watch in grim satisfaction as her fingers reached up to probe her face, checking for blood. Unfortunately, there was none — damn Stynes and their physical enhancements…

Then, without warning, the back of Gemma's hand cracked across Dean's face, snapping his head to the side. She gripped his jaw in one hand, pinning his head to the floor. He tensed, not sure what to expect, but when Gemma spoke, her tone wasn't angry. She was impressed. "Incredible! You timed that so well!" She giggled, squeezing him playfully with her knees. "I like it rough, Dean. But even I have my limits. Of course, you might say I was asking for it, so I'll let it slide, just this once… but trust me, if you try anything like that again, I will find a nice black collar for you to wear. With a very short leash."

The image made Dean's stomach churn, and he shivered despite himself. "I'm gonna rip you apart, bitch."

"Oh, _härzli,_ when are you going to learn?" she teased, releasing his face while grinding against his stomach. "I love it when you talk dirty."

And just like that, Dean realized… she wasn't just toying with him. She was training him. Harassing him whenever he grew too combative. Lovely. Well, at least now he knew how to get her off him. "Ok… ok…" He racked his brain for something to distract her. "You wanna explain how you found us back in that resort?"

Sure enough, Gemma sat herself upright with a smug look of approval.

"We have a psychic in our midst," she explained casually. "Well, not a real one… but we harvested the eyes of a psychic, and that provides certain enhancements which made it easy to track you boys down."

Dean inadvertently remembered the Carrigans' plan to sell Sam's blood — among other organs — to the highest bidder, and it took a conscious effort for him not to imagine the pagan gods with Sam in an auction house, handing him off to Jacob…

Damn, he had to change the subject. Now.

"It took you long enough," he muttered. "We can't have been that much of a priority."

"You, not so much," Gemma acknowledged, tracing his jawline with her finger. "Which I do regret now that I realize how much fun we could have been having all this time." She sighed. "Hindsight and all that. But you know what they say: it always works out in the end. You boys dropped your guard. You never saw us coming."

"Our dad will," Dean retorted spitefully.

Gemma rolled her eyes. "Your dad?" she asked skeptically. "He doesn't even know you're missing. And suppose he did. Then what?" She brushed her fingers through Dean's hair. "I'm sure he's smart enough to understand we don't need two hostages. As long as we have both you and your brother, Daddy Dearest will do whatever he's told to keep you both alive. He can't save you, _härzli_. No one can."

To drive home her point, Gemma leaned in, tracing her tongue up Dean's cheek, holding him still as she bit his earlobe. He knew he shouldn't fight — she enjoyed it too much — but his nerves were frayed and he couldn't help himself. "Don't you ever stop?!"

With her hair in the way, Dean couldn't see her hand until it dropped firmly across his mouth. Gemma pulled back from him, meeting his glare with a seductive smile.

"I could do this all day. And when we get home, I can do it all night."

 **SPN**

 **(I-40, East of Albuquerque, New Mexico… January 16, 2008) 2.7k words to this point**

Jacob did not regret breaking Sammy's fingers — the discipline would do the boy some good — but the longer he sat in the front passenger seat, the more restless he became. He could hear Sammy in the back, doing his best to stay quiet, but every once in a while, the kid moaned — even whimpered — in both fear and pain. Jacob longed to reassure him… to splint his fingers and promise never to leave him again… but not in front of Dario.

How much longer? They had been on the road for eight hours; they weren't even halfway there yet.

From the corner of his eye, Jacob noticed Dario shifting in his seat, his eyes sliding down to the dashboard. "We're running low on fuel."

Jacob grunted. It was bound to happen sooner or later. "Shall we find somewhere to make a pit stop?" He spoke softly, trusting Sam's thick velvet hood to obscure the sound of his voice.

Dario sighed. "Another delay. At this rate, we'll all be on a next lifetime before we get that book," he grumbled. "Very well. Call Gemma and let her know."

While Dario merged through traffic into the right lane, Jacob fished his phone from his pocket and pressed the speed dial for Gemma. He held the device to his ear and waited as it rang… and rang… and rang… No response. That wasn't like her. Unless…

Jacob frowned, terminating the call. "It would appear her new 'toy' is monopolizing her attention."

Dario laughed out loud. "Well, then, let's not bother her. You have no idea how uptight she's been these past few years. If anyone needs to blow off some steam, she does!"

Jacob clenched his jaw. Oh, he had no doubt that Gemma was making Dean miserable, which he could appreciate. But while she was having a good time, Jacob was forced to neglect Sam, and that didn't sit right with him. It wasn't fair.

Sam deserved some attention too.

 **SPN**

Every bump and jostle of the road aggravated Sam's broken fingers and it took everything he had to not give his captors the satisfaction of hearing his pain. The problem was, that was a good theory. Sam's reality was vastly different and there were few moans that he could clamp down on. At one point they'd hit a pothole so fast it had jarred his hand against the metal wall of the van, ripping a muffled howl of agony out of his throat and exploding stars behind the darkness of his hood.

Another escape attempt was out of the question. He could barely think about anything other than the agony in his hand. A part of his mind kept telling him to suck it up: they were only broken fingers. He'd dealt with worse before. But being deprived of most of his other senses only aided in exacerbating the pain. Not even the meditation techniques he'd learned over the last few years — mainly to help him control his powers — were of any use. He was too highly strung. The occasional struggle he'd given had proven futile; his good hand was numb and his legs were locked straight.

In the fleeting moments when the road was smooth and his crooked fingers merely throbbed, he found himself racking his brains, trying to think of _anything_ that could help him identify his captors and what they wanted from him. The only thing he's been able to ascertain was that one of them was a guy — his grip on Sam's fingers was too big to be a woman's. That didn't mean they were human though; Azazel's demons just had to borrow some helpless individual to ride.

But would the demon have his followers sneak in during the middle of the night to grab him from one of the most conspicuous cities in the world? It didn't feel like the yellow-eyed demon's style. He was more… ostentatious than that. But maybe that was exactly why he'd done it: to throw Sam off.

Another jolt had him biting down on the cloth in his mouth, a soft whimper escaping as he clenched his eyes shut.

Sam didn't want to admit it but he was screwed. And he had no idea where the only person who could help him was.

He just had to hope to God that Dean was coming after him.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	14. Hope Lost

**Thank you so much to all those of you who have reviewed/followed/favorited/read so far! I'm so glad that so many of you have been happy that this is still going!**

 **There is violence and death in this chapter…please be warned!**

 **SPN**

 **(McCartys, East of Albuquerque, New Mexico… January 16, 2008)**

The scent was in the van ahead of him; Benny had never been so sure in his long life. He'd been following the black cargo van for twenty miles, almost losing it at first when he'd driven past it. Swinging around, he'd floored his truck until he'd caught up, staying far enough back so that he wouldn't be detected. But it wasn't likely; like most of the interstates, the majority of drivers 'stuck together' for miles and, even when the van pulled off down a slip road, Benny doubted the driver would have noticed him.

That wasn't his biggest concern: it was that Sam was now the only brother he could distinguish.

Dean's scent was still there but it was fainter, like he was in a different vehicle. Which didn't make any sense. The Impala wasn't the kind of car anyone missed on the road and he definitely hadn't passed it. And he knew the brothers — it was rare for them to split up, unless they were with other hunters. Benny hadn't detected Bobby or John with them. The uneasy feeling that had settled in his gut was growing as his tires ate away at the miles. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, pawing at his eyes under his sunglasses. The heat and glare of the sun in New Mexico wasn't doing the vampire any favors. It was sapping at his strength — not a lot, but enough for him to notice the fatigue hanging heavy in his limbs.

Suddenly, the black van swerved off the road, dust flying up as it pulled into a rundown gas station.

 _About time._

Benny slowed and turned too, pulling up off to the side. Cutting the engine, he turned to watch the van. He needed to see what move the occupants made before he made his.

 **SPN**

Dario switched the van off, the aircon instantly cutting out. It wasn't going to take long for the van to heat up and that wasn't going to be good for Sam. Jacob stared out, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the gas station. It was mostly empty save for a couple of other vehicles at the pumps — their owners already in the store — and one beat up old truck that had just pulled in behind them. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and his gaze slid to his left where he found Dario twisted around, his hungry eyes focused on their captive.

"Why don't you go fill the van? I'll see to our guest," Dario ordered, not even bothering to look at his cousin.

Jacob felt his blood ignite.

"Not a chance," he bit out, struggling to keep his voice low. He wished they'd had the forethought to make Sam wear earplugs.

That made Dario turned to look at him. "Excuse me?"

"You think I'm gonna leave you here with him after you screwed up in the first place? If I'd left it up to you, he would've escaped and killed us both by now," Jacob growled, satisfied to see Dario's face flush with anger. "You can't be trust with him. _I_ , on the other hand, am more than capable of handling the boy. So I suggest you hurry up."

The muscle in Dario's jaw ticked as he clenched his jaw. "Fine." He grabbed his door, wrenching it open.

"Get some medical tape and something to set his fingers with while you're at it," Jacob instructed, giving his cousin a patronizing grin that didn't reach his eyes when he slammed the door shut. Jacob exhaled, turning in his seat to look at his brother.

 _Finally._

 **SPN**

Sam jumped when a tremor ran through the van, a muffled bang coming through the hood. He shifted uneasily, biting back a moan when his broken fingers twitched. They'd stopped – that much was clear – and he'd be an idiot _not_ to try to get attention… but he had no idea where they were or if anyone who could help would even notice. He braced himself and gave his hands an experimental jerk. The strap holding his arms up allowed him to move back and forth but not enough for him to bang on the wall. Twisting his legs, Sam couldn't even raise his feet off the floor.

He was stuck. His captors were giving him nothing and, though Sam hated to admit it, that scared the hell out of him

The floor rumbled beneath him and he tensed, wishing that whoever had taken him was going to remove the damned hood, but that wasn't likely since they knew about his abilities. Plus, they were making it very clear that they really didn't want Sam to know who they were.

The footsteps stopped. Sam held his breath.

 **SPN**

Jacob sighed, looking down at his little brother. He wanted nothing more than to talk to him, to have a conversation, but…now was not the time. When he revealed that he was back, it had to be the right moment. Doing it in the rising heat of the van was not how Jacob wanted to savor the memory. Sam was twisting minutely; Jacob couldn't tell if he was trying to loosen his bindings or shifting through discomfort. The New Mexican sun was beating down on the van, the temperature rising quickly without the aircon on. The boy's shirt was already drenched with sweat. If Jacob left him like that, he was going to get ill; he'd be neglecting his role as a big brother if he let that happen.

An idea sparked and he walked back to the front of the van, rummaging through one of the duffel bags. He pulled out a water bottle, a knife and a cloth before turning back to Sam.

 **SPN**

Cool air slithered over his stomach as Sam's shirt was pulled away from his body. In his silent world, it wasn't a welcome movement, despite the drop in temperature over his hot skin, and he squirmed uncomfortably, his breathing quickening. Having an unknown entity messing with him was not something he wanted to experience. His growl was muted when he felt something tensing against his shirt and, as he realized what was happening, he writhed uselessly, unable to stop his captor from cutting through his shirt. The moment he felt the tattered halves drag over his skin, Sam grunted, hating how vulnerable he felt. He bucked, earning himself a short, hard slap on the abdomen as a warning before he felt the knife drag along his sleeves until his tormentor was able to pull the ruined shirt away from him, leaving him completely exposed.

His chest rose and fell, prickling under the stagnant air of the van, making him almost hypersensitive. Desperation filled him and Sam pushed out mentally, fighting with everything in him to make _something_ happen. He didn't care what.

He just didn't want to be the victim.

But nothing sparked and he moaned in frustration when something wet and cold what pressed to his skin. It instantly helped cool him but he didn't want anything from these people, let alone a damned wash down! When he tried to move, a weight fell across his thighs: his captor planting himself on Sam. Beneath the suffocating hood, he felt his cheeks burn with humiliation and, for the first time, he was almost glad that they couldn't see his reaction. All he could do was bear their oppressive ministrations and hope to god that something intervened.

 **SPN**

Benny sat, waiting, his eyes glued to the black cargo van. He didn't recognize the tall blond who was climbing out of the driver's side even though there was something intensely familiar about him. But that wasn't the only part that disturbed the vampire.

He was… vicious.

Benny had been alive long enough to know that he was rarely wrong about people just from what they looked like. He could tell a psychopath from a hundred meters without seeing their face. And that's exactly what he was presented with now. That, coupled with the fact that Sam hadn't appeared, was not a good sign at all. Sam's presence would've at least confirmed that the youngest Winchester was okay. Dean's scent was getting fainter by the minute: he definitely wasn't with him.

There was something really wrong.

"Get in already," Benny grumbled impatiently, watching the blond man as he sauntered across the forecourt, his eyes wandering, clearly taking note of everything — and everyone. It wasn't a normal reaction, further cementing Benny's suspicions. The vampire had no idea what he was about to do when he got to the van, but he was going to have to do it quickly; Blondie wasn't going to be gone long.

Benny slid out of his truck, walking quickly across the forecourt to the van, keeping his cap low and his eyes sideways on the storefront. Gravel scuffed the tarmac beneath his feet as he came up on the back of the van. Glancing around briefly, he noted the lack of passersby. Good. He doubted the rear door was unlocked and he didn't have time for the finesse of lockpicking; by now his gut was roaring at him that Sam was in danger — and the stench that had been plaguing him for weeks was the reason.

The vampire leaned in, listening. Even with his exceptional hearing, there was nothing. He grabbed the handle with one hand, placing the other against the second door, holding it steady. With an almighty heave, Benny yanked the door open, snapping the lock. It took a brief second for the vampire's eyes to adjust to the gloom within after the harsh New Mexico sunshine.

"Sam!" Livid shock filled him as he saw the youngest Winchester painfully restrained and shirtless with a blue hood covering his face and a man holding him down. But the hunter heard him: Benny watched his head turn and heard a muffled shout emanate from beneath the hood. The vampire turned his gaze on the man looming over Sam, his own green eyes wide in surprise. Benny couldn't believe it.

Jacob!

"You!" he roared, about to leap forward and attack, only to have the Styne leap off Sam and surge towards him, catapulting himself out of the van and onto the vampire. The two men hit the floor in a plume of dust and grappling limbs.

 **SPN**

Benny?!

Sam didn't care how the vampire had found him; he was simply relieved he had. It was short-lived when he heard the recognition in Benny's voice. His captor… they weren't a stranger.

And Sam had a lot of enemies.

There was no way he could narrow it down with the little information he did have; Benny had been to the Roadhouse. He knew some of the hunters, even if they didn't know what he was. Not that that helped either of them right now: Sam needed to be out there, fighting. But he'd tried to fight and got nowhere. All he could do was sit and listen to the fight going on beyond the darkness and hope that Benny was the victor.

 **SPN**

Dario stood impatiently behind a plump woman in her forties, her laugh loud and obnoxious as she chatted with the cashier. Clearly time was not of the essence for either of them and it irked Dario, spiking his temper higher along with the sweltering heat. The Swiss man wasn't used to such temperatures and it had left him almost permanently irritated for the last few days. Clenching his jaw, he huffed through his nose, about to snap his displeasure at both of them when something outside the window caught his eye. Beyond the fuel pumps, two bodies fell to the ground, creating a cloud of dust as they rolled, locked against each other. Dario couldn't tell who the other man was — he was too short to be their captive — but Jacob was easy to make out. The conversation in front of him stopped and Dario turned, noting that both the woman and cashier were staring, open-mouthed, at the fight.

 _Well done, Jacob,_ he thought sarcastically. It would appear that the idiot couldn't help but draw attention to himself.

Reaching around the back of his waistband, Dario pulled out the pistol he'd stashed there. He'd left the silencer in the van, but it was fine: there wouldn't be any witnesses. No one could know they'd been here: not after this.

Lifting his arm, he took aim at the back of the woman's head.

 **SPN**

A left hook to the head sent Jacob sprawling across the asphalt, stars exploding behind his eyelids. A normal hit wouldn't provoke such a physical reaction from a Styne, but then, a punch from a vampire was not a normal hit. Recovering quickly, he scrambled up, narrowly avoiding a kick aimed at his head. His hand shot out and grabbed Benny's ankle, giving it a violent twist. The vampire snarled in agony, the crunch in his knee audible as he dropped to the ground. Jacob's fists rained down on him relentlessly, landing strike after strike in a barrage of strength that left the vampire vulnerable, unable to do anything but raise his arms defensively. Twisting onto his screaming knee, Benny ignored it and lunged, grabbing the Styne around the waist and propelling him backwards, slamming him into the back of the van with a colossal bang. He grabbed fistfuls of Jacob's shirt, pulling him forwards to smack him back, satisfied when the man's head cracked against the metal, lolling to the side.

The vampire shifted his grip, grabbing the human around the neck. He couldn't bite the Styne: their blood was almost as poisonous as dead-man's blood.

But snapping his neck would be easy.

Jacob scrabbled beneath his hand, his elbow hitting the van door as he clawed at Benny's hand. The sound of a muffled cry filtered through the air, catching both men's attention momentarily.

Desperation – unlike anything Jacob had ever known – grasped him wholly. He would _not_ lose his brother! Not again. The vampire had split them apart once: Jacob wasn't going to let him again.

He lashed out with his foot, prying Benny's fingers back at the same time. The vampire stumbled back, letting go of Jacob who went after him with such ferocity that it drove the vampire down, leaving him no room to counter.

Relentless energy coursed through Jacob, powered by the enhancements he'd demanded. He wasn't the weak, vulnerable human that Ajay had summoned. He was a Styne.

Stynes didn't lose.

A final kick hurled the vampire backwards into the van below the open door. He crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from numerous cuts on his face. Benny's eyes lifted to Jacob who grabbed the open door with one hand and he knew he'd lost. Despair for the Winchesters filled him.

 _I'm so sorry, Sam._

The van door slammed shut, severing the vampire's head in a spurt of blood.

 **SPN**

"Mmph!" Sam tried to call out, twisting his wrists anxiously. He'd felt the van jolt beneath him several times as something – or someone – smacked into it and there had been one last bang before the muted sounds of the fight had gone. Seconds passed like days as he waited, holding his breath.

 _Please be Benny. Please be Benny. Please be–_

A hand grabbed him round the throat, squeezing hard. Sam moaned, his heart aching as fear tremored through his nerves. There was no way Benny would have conceded. If his captor was back, his friend was dead.

Because of him.

 **SPN**

Jacob held on just long enough for Sam to fully realize who had won. While he wasn't expecting gratitude – the vampire had been his friend after all – he knew that Sam would feel it later when he saw how Benny had tried to tear them apart again. He leaned in, resting his forehead against Sam's, still holding his throat, as he sought relief in knowing that he'd saved his brother. Sam squirmed, but it was fine.

And finally, Jacob knew he had his moment.

"It's alright, Sammy, I'm here."

 **SPN**

Air evaporated like water, leaving his lungs dry and burning.

Sam couldn't move. Couldn't think. Every muscle turned to ice and his mind blanked out. All he could feel were the warm fingers wrapped around his throat, the pressure against his forehead and the unannounced tears that trickled, unbidden, down the sides of his face.

He was dead.

This wasn't happening.

He was dead.

"Nothing's going to come between us again," the voice crooned beyond the darkness.

 _Jacob_.

 **SPN**

The relief of finally being out in the open was palpable. Euphoric. He had hated waiting, hated knowing that Sam hadn't known it was him, but the wait was worth it. While it would've been nice to have held off until they were home and Jacob could've seen the look in Sam's eyes when he finally pulled off the hood, the Styne realized that this moment had to be organic. Untainted. Sam needed his reassurance and that was more important than his own feelings. Besides, he would still get that moment with Sam later. And now Sam could enjoy the anticipation of their real reunion as much as he was.

"What have you done?!"

Jacob jerked away from his brother at Dario's bark; his cousin stood in the broken doorway of the van, his gaze rooted on Benny's decapitated corpse. Jacob released his hold on Sam and stood up, walking towards Dario, towering over him.

"What I had to," he snarled, no longer worrying about keeping his voice down, a shiver of revelation trickling down his spine. "He was a threat. If I hadn't killed him, he would've set Sam free. Then _you'd_ be dead."

"He _knew_ the location of the _book_ ," Dario spat, turning livid eyes up at his cousin.

"Watch your tone, boy," Jacob growled, his fists tightening. "If you were that bothered, you would've been here helping."

Dario's jaw clenched, his eyes sparking a cold fury. "We'll see what Gemma has to say about it when we catch up with her."

"We can't," Jacob retorted, rolling his eyes and gesturing to the door beside Dario. "Damned vampire snapped the lock – that door won't stay shut on its own. We need to get out of sight and call her: head back in one van. Grab him." He gestured to Benny's body before turning away from Dario, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. Dialing Gemma's number, he waited for her to pick up, his gaze sliding down to his brother again. He could see the fine trembling of his limbs, the sheen of sweat that had formed again, despite having had it washed it off him once. The phone just continued to ring and he snapped it shut with an exasperated growl. He crouched down again, reaching out to pat Sam's leg affectionately.

"It's alright, little brother. Breathe. C'mon," he coaxed. Sam's chest suddenly inflated and he broke into a frenzy of struggling, twisting and writhing against the ropes that held him down. Jacob grinned when he recognized his name despite being muffled by the gag in Sam's mouth. "Thatta boy, Sammy," he praised, delighted to see the fight back in his little brother, even though it was pointless. He wasn't ever going to let Sam go.

The thump of Benny's body landing in the back broke Jacob's attention and he moved away, reveling in Sam's incoherent bellows as he kicked the body to one side, Dario throwing the head in after it.

"Hold the doors closed until I find us somewhere to leave the van," Dario ordered as he climbed into the van, stalking past Jacob to the driver's seat. "Did Gemma answer?"

"No," Jacob growled, irked by the knowledge that she was unobtainable because of her new toy. "Find us a place and I'll try something different."

 **SPN**

 **(Outskirts of Mesita, East of Albuquerque, New Mexico… January 16, 2008)**

"What do you want?" Dean asked, staring up at Gemma. She was still straddled across his stomach as she idly brushed her fingers up and down his bicep. He was exhausted and aching, his hands long having gone numb beneath him.

Gemma's grin was slow and seductive. "Haven't I made that obvious?"

"That's not –" Dean bit back the aggression that flared, closing his eyes to calm himself before he tried again. "I mean your family. Why are you after us now?"

He hated trying to have a reasonable conversation with the Styne; Dean wanted nothing more than to put a bullet between her eyes, but the more he fought, the worse she was. And he was beginning to think that, if he pushed too far, she would revoke her statement of not going too far in a moving vehicle.

"I'd hate to ruin the punchline, _härzli_ ," she replied, giving him a gentle squeeze with her thighs. Dean's jaw clenched. "But may–" Dean's eyes widened as Gemma reeled back, unable to finish her sentence as her hands rocketed up to grasp the sides of her head, her mouth open in a silent scream.

 **SPN**

A cacophony of images tore through Gemma's consciousness. Images on top of images, sounds and emotions cascaded down on her, hammering against her mind. Sam tied to the van…Dario's face contorted in disgust…the sweltering heat of the van…a terrified moan…the back doors ripping open…

A fight. Jacob grappling with a man she didn't recognize.

And over it all: one voice.

 _"Gemma, get back here. Now!"_

 **SPN**

The corded muscles in Gemma's neck stood out beneath her flawless skin until a final ragged gasp eased the shade of purple from her face.

"What the hell was that?" Dean asked her, his frown deep but bewildered as she clambered off him. She ignored him and he twisted back onto his side, groaning with relief as blood rushed back towards his hands. Looking up, he watched her stalk to the front of the van and reach into the glove compartment, pulling out her phone.

" _Skit_!"

Dean wasn't one for languages, but he was pretty sure that whatever she saw hadn't made her happy. She placed her phone against her ear as she walked back to him, looming over the Winchester.

"What the hell was that?!" she snapped as soon as the person at the other end picked up. Dean watched her curiously as she listened, her glare dissipating in surprise before deepening into a snarl. Abruptly she turned away from him and strode back to the front of the van, her voice lowered so that Dean couldn't hear her.

"Crap," he murmured, knowing that whatever was making her pissed wasn't going to be anything good for him.

Or Sam.

"C'mon," he growled, twisting his wrists. He felt the rope burn against his skin, but nothing budged. No wonder Sam had never been able to get away from the psychotic family before; they were way too good at holding people. If he wasn't having much luck, he dreaded what Sam was going through; they would've been harder on him, knowing that he had power. The thought made bile rise in Dean's throat.

Gemma reappeared beside him, crouching near his head with a bottle of water, catching him off guard. There was no way she was suddenly going to be nice to him now.

"You want some?" she asked, her tone cool and calm as she unscrewed the cap. Dean eyed it suspiciously and she sighed, rolling her eyes before taking a mouthful of it herself. She swallowed and licked her lower lip. "Honestly, _härzli_ , if I wanted to drug you, I'd just do it. I don't need to try and fool you."

"Fine," Dean grumbled, forcing down his resentment as she held the bottle to his lips. Truth was, he was dry as a bone: the last drink he'd had had been alcoholic. And he didn't know when he was going to get another offer.

He was halfway through the bottle when she spoke. "So it would seem we have to make a brief detour thanks to a friend of yours," Gemma huffed, holding the bottle still when Dean jerked his head away.

"What friend?!" he demanded, watching as she screwed the cap back on. Hope surged momentarily: someone knew where they were! Someone was coming. If they weren't here, they had to be with Sam. Relief almost began to bloom in his chest, but Gemma's expression halted it. She leaned over him, reaching above his head, unable to see him roll his eyes against the blatant display she was offering.

"Don't get your hopes up, Dean: they're dead," she replied matter-of-factly. His heart stopped as he stared at her, a cold flush washing over his skin.

 _No…_

"Tell me!" he shouted again, locking eyes with her, trying to scramble backwards when she grabbed him around the back of the neck. "What frie–mmph!" Gemma shoved the cloth she'd used earlier back in his mouth, cupping her hand over it and forcing his head back against the floor as she grabbed the second cloth.

"Shhh… _härzli_ ," she crooned as she removed her hand and forced the other bandana over his mouth and tied it tightly behind his head, ignoring his attempts to dislodge her. She grabbed his jaw, digging in with her fingers as she felt the vibration of his growl beneath her grip. She planted a soft kiss against his forehead. "There'll be plenty of time for us when we get home. I promise."

 **SPN**

 **I'm sorry about Benny! Please review!**


	15. Confined Spaces

**Thank you for the awesome reviews all! I'm gutted about Benny too – definitely wasn't easy to write.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **SPN**

 **(McCartys, East of Albuquerque, New Mexico… January 16, 2008)**

The van door slammed, resounding across the desert that stretched for miles in all directions. Dario had pulled in down a vacant dirt track, far off the main road, but there were no copses or anything that could be defined as cover for as far as the eye could see. Instead, it was a barren wasteland with nothing but boulders and tufts of brittle grass scattered across the dry horizon. Gemma's heels crunched across the dirt as she stalked over to the second van, Jacob and Dario both getting out to greet her.

"You had better start explaining and it had better be good or I will have Father harvest the both of you!" she snapped, her blue eyes flashing steel. The sun beat down on the three of them and it did little to elevate Gemma's temper. But she had fire: it was a quality that Jacob could admire in her.

"The vampire – the one who knows the location of the book – appeared and Jacob killed him," Dario replied, his thick accent brushing through the words before Jacob had a chance to intervene. He scowled at his cousin, barely resisting the urge to start throwing punches.

Gemma turned on him, her frown deep. "Is this true?"

"His corpse is in the back; go look," Dario interrupted again, earning a livid glare from the pair of them.

"I wasn't asking _you,_ " Gemma spat, holding her perfectly manicured hand up in front of Dario. She turned her attention to Jacob, quirking an expectant eyebrow.

"Yes, the vampire appeared and yes, I killed him. But," Jacob explained coolly, "he broke into the van and was clearly after Sam. I interceded and we fought. He gave me no opportunity to look for a way to subdue him."

"You mean, you didn't _look_ for one," Dario grumbled.

Jacob wheeled on him. "And how would you know that? Where were you in all of this, Dario?!"

"I would like to know that too," Gemma interceded, her brow smoothing even though her anger simmered behind her eyes.

"Cleaning up the witnesses to _your_ mess," Dario growled, tension running through his huge frame. Clearly, he wasn't used to being out of favor.

"Let me make this perfectly clear for you: this isn't _my_ mess; it's _ours_ ," Jacob snapped, his patience gone. "The vampire came after Sam; he could've gone for Dean just as easily. Get on the same page as the rest of us, boy, or you're gonna find yourself in the same hole as him."

"Enough, the pair of you!" Gemma barked, standing between them, before slowly unclenching her fists and placing a hand on each of their chests. "What has happened is unfortunate. If it was a to-the-death fight, there was little you could have done, Jacob. And if Sam had been let loose, we would all be dead. I'll admit it would have been more convenient for you to help, Dario, but we also cannot leave witnesses. I will explain it to Father; I doubt he will be pleased, but I can bring him round. But no. more. screw-ups." She enunciated her last sentence with jabs at both of their chests.

"Fine by me," Jacob replied, a sense of smugness filling him when Gemma gave him an affectionate pat before dropping her hand, but awarding Dario nothing similar. "We need to transfer Sam and splint his fingers."

"What happened to his fingers?" Gemma asked, her eyes narrowing curiously.

"A lesson in obedience," Jacob smirked and she laughed.

"Dean has been just as… entertaining to teach," she replied, running her tongue over her lower lip. "Come, let's get this over with. We're too exposed out here."

 **SPN**

The van rocked beneath Sam, a motion he was slowly getting used to in his sensory-deprived world. His breathing hitched and his body tensed, halting his struggles.

 _"Nothing's going to come between us again."_

He wanted to be sick. It wasn't real: it couldn't be. Jacob was dead. Hell, Sam was possessing him when he died! He'd felt the life leave Jacob's body when Benny decapitated him. It had been two years. There was no way it could be him!

 _Not everything that dies stays dead,_ a part of his mind whispered to him and he shoved it down. Whoever it was who'd taken him knew about his time with the Stynes. If they could dampen his abilities, they could create a voice like Jacob's. Caroline had completely altered her appearance when he'd been held in the Styne mansion, making herself into the visage of his real mom, Mary. The Stynes weren't the only ones with that kind of power. It was all a mind game. He wasn't going to believe it. To believe it was to allow it to be real, and for Sam, there was no worse reality than that.

Sam jumped when he felt multiple hands grab his wrists. He moaned, writhing when the ropes slackened and disappeared. Jerking his arms, he grappled with his captors, trying to wrench free while a third fiddled with the bindings around his legs. If they were taking him out, that could only mean they'd got whenever they'd planned to take him and Sam was sure as hell that that wasn't somewhere he wanted to be. The pressure around his knees disappeared and he found he could draw his legs back up again. Sam lashed out with his feet, blindly kicking out, a strangled howl escaping his throat when he felt a hand wrap around his broken fingers, squeezing them.

 **SPN**

"Try that again and I'll snap your other fingers," Dario growled loudly enough for Sam to hear. The boy whimpered, squirming beneath his grip.

"Enough!" Jacob barked, green eyes livid as he glared across at his cousin. "Let go." It was one thing for him to reprimand his brother, but Dario inflicting pain for the sake of it was completely different.

It wasn't his place.

Sam had stiffened under his touch when he'd spoken; he didn't even relax when Dario slowly released his broken fingers. He was bound to be wary; if Jacob had thought Sam had died two years ago and was suddenly back, he'd feel the same anticipation that could only be quelled when they came face to face. Jacob felt a shiver trace up his spine at the thought of their true reunion.

"Sam, we need to move you. Now, I can't promise you'll be more comfortable, but I will patch up your hand, alright? There's no point in trying anything: you know you're not going anywhere," Jacob explained calmly, feeling Sam's half-hearted twisting beneath his hands. He looked over at Gemma who had finished adjusting the rope around Sam's ankles. "Ready?"

She nodded. "Let's go."

Together, the three of them slid Sam across the floor, Gemma lowering Sam's feet to the ground through the sliding door. Jacob and Dario both stepped down, hauling Sam upright between them, grasping his arms behind his back. They nudged him forwards and Sam stumbled, his long stride cut short by the hobbling ropes that allowed him to walk but not run. Not that he could with bare feet on the rough dirt. Jacob felt him relax, supposedly concentrating on taking his blind steps while Jacob counted slowly in his head.

At the count of four, Sam bucked, fighting both men hard, digging his feet into the gravel.

"Easy, Sammy, c'mon, there's no point fighting," Jacob soothed, his grip ironclad as he dragged the taller man towards the second van. He had to give the kid points for trying. It was just unfortunate for him that the odds were never going to be in his favor.

 **SPN**

A trickle of sweat slithered down from the edge of Dean's hairline, missing his eye as he lay panting in the heat of the van. They hadn't been parked up for long, but the guy driving – Giles – had turned the engine off, cutting off the aircon. As loathe as he was to spend anymore time than necessary around Gemma, if she was gone for long, the stifling conditions of the vehicle were going to become unbearable. It was bad enough that she'd gagged him again, leaving him suspicious of her change in mood. Whoever had called had annoyed her and she'd refused to explain what she meant by Dean's 'friend'. It left a ball of anxiety rolling in his gut that he couldn't shift.

The silence was broken by the loud bang and swoosh of the van's sliding door, a stream of glaring sunlight blinding Dean, making him reel back and turn his gaze away. He blinked hard, turning back towards the door when a shadow fell across the light.

"Mmph!" His shout was lost in the gag, but he saw his brother's instant reaction and heard a muffled cry of his own name from beneath a heavy-looking blue hood. Rage filled Dean at his brother's treatment, his livid glare taking in his bare chest and feet. What the hell had they been doing to him?! The look transferred over to Gemma who climbed up into the van and over to the blond guy who'd grabbed him.

Finally, a third figure stepped out from behind Sam, making Dean's heart stop. He was a man Dean both hated and feared.

 _Jacob_.

At just over six feet tall, his broad shoulders and back were ramrod straight in his perfectly tailored clothes. He wore a smug glint in eyes that made Dean's widen in horror: they were a mirror image of his own color. That wasn't possible!

Jacob looked him straight in the eye as he leaned in towards Sam, keeping his gaze locked on Dean's as he crooned with that all-too-familiar southern drawl in Sam's ear. "Nearly there, _little brother_."

Dean bucked angrily, bellowing incoherently, straining against the ropes holding him down. Not again! They couldn't go through this again!

He watched helplessly as the two men jerked Sam to a stop before they hoisted him up the step and into the van, ignoring his struggles and the quiet cries for Dean. He'd never felt so useless as they manhandled Sam while he lay there doing nothing, the ropes almost seeming to tighten around him the more he writhed.

"Set him down," Gemma instructed having walked back over with a duffel bag in her hand. Dean watched with silent satisfaction when Sam refused to kneel even when they pressed down on his shoulders. His eyes lighted with a smirk when Jacob tried cajoling him and he still didn't move.

The look left him when Dario kicked Sam in the back of the knees sending him crashing to the ground. Both he and Jacob glared at the other Styne, but Jacob said nothing while Dean cursed him with a muted tongue.

Ignoring him, Gemma pulled out medical tape and two long, thin pieces of wood that looked almost like popsicle sticks. Dean watched suspiciously as she knelt down, straddling Sam's legs, turning her head and winking at him when Dean growled. "Don't worry, _härzli_ : you're the only one I want to play with," she grinned before turning away from him again, her tone softening. "Let me see, Jacob."

The second Styne did as she asked, keeping his grip tight on Sam's arm and wrist as he brought it around to the front of his body. Dean's eyes widened when he saw his little brother's right hand. The index and middle fingers were swollen and black, curled and limp compared to his other fingers. The ropes sawed into Dean's wrists, his biceps bulging but he fought with renewed energy. He couldn't let this happen to Sam again.

He was supposed to protect him.

 **SPN**

A different weight settled across Sam's lap, pinning him to the floor when all he wanted to do was find Dean. He knew his brother was there: he'd heard him calling out even though the words weren't clear. Dread had turned to ice in Sam's gut: if they'd got to Dean too, no one was coming for them. John was on a hunt and Bobby would assume they were enjoying Vegas. By the time he realized something was wrong, they'd be long gone.

"Let me see, Jacob." He didn't recognize the woman's voice, but she was close enough for him to hear her – she was the one sitting on him. His right arm was maneuvered by his assailant even as Sam fought against him. There was no way he wanted them anywhere near his painfully throbbing fingers. Breathing was difficult beneath the stifling hood as he sucked in huge lungfuls of air through his nose.

"You're ok, little brother –" Another growl from Dean came through the thick material, railing against their captor's choice of words, "– Gemma's gonna help set your fingers. The more you fight, the more it will hurt, but that's your choice."

Sam felt delicate fingers take his hand and he instantly tried to jerk away. Hands tightened around his wrists and upper arms, the other guy holding his left arm twisting it upwards until Sam moaned, almost convinced he was going to pop his shoulder out of joint.

The woman – Gemma – took his hand carefully, but he knew what was coming. "Mmph!" He shook his head, straining against them as she slid what felt like a piece of wood between his fingers and carefully began straightening them. Despite her delicacy, the movement was agony and his moans became wails as tears streaked down his cheeks. He could barely hear Dean as he cried out unintelligible words of comfort; blood was pounding in Sam's head as stars popped in the darkness. It happened in continuous waves as she wrapped something – tape – around the base and tops of his fingers.

After what felt like hours, even though it was probably barely a few minutes, Sam felt her let go and his broken fingers remained straight, caught in the splint she'd made which attached them together and to his ring finger. He sagged, energy spent, one of the hands leaving his right arm to snake around his shoulders and pull him over until he felt a forehead rest against his. Helpless rage ignited from the fear in his gut.

 **SPN**

Jacob reveled in close proximity of his brother, holding onto the moment, savoring it even as his hand shot back, grabbing Sam by the back of his neck when his head jerked away from Jacob and to the side in a futile attempt to head-butt him. Jacob felt, more than heard, Sam's growl of frustration, the vibration caressing his fingers through the hood.

Jacob leaned in close, keeping his grip tight. "Nice try, but you forget, Sammy: I know all your tricks." He ignored the protest from behind him. Soon Dean wouldn't interfere with them again. "The more you resist, the worse it will be for you, boy. That was your last free shot."

"Jacob," Gemma interrupted, the clank of iron accompanying her voice, "play with him later. We need to go."

He sighed and nodded, knowing she was right. They still had a lot of ground to cover and the sooner they continued, the sooner they could get home.

And Sam's rehabilitation could begin.

"Here, let's get this on him; he can't go all the way there half-naked," Gemma remarked, holding up a white dress shirt.

Jacob frowned. "Is that _his_?" He nodded his head at Dario.

Gemma rolled her eyes. "Yes. No one else's will fit. Sam's too big."

Jacob ignored the amused smirk Dario shot at him, instead maneuvering so that Gemma could get Sam's arm in the sleeve. Sam still fought despite Jacob's warning, but it was to be expected in front of Dean. He would feel the need to show more resistance to keep up appearances; Sam was sensitive and wouldn't want Dean to think he was betraying him – their loyalty ran deep. Jacob could understand that. He'd enjoy reminding Sam that their loyalty to each other – their bond – ran deeper than Dean's ever could.

It didn't take long for them to wrestle the shirt onto Sam, Gemma deftly buttoning it up. It was a complete mismatch with the baggy sweatpants he was wearing but it would do until they reached Shreveport.

Both Dario and Jacob moved out of the way, still holding Sam's wrists, while Gemma reached around his waist, looping an iron chain across his middle before locking it in place with a padlock at his back. Sam squirmed again, uncomfortable under the new weight and knowing full well what was coming. Gemma attached two sets of wide iron manacles to the links near Sam's hips. They locked on with heavy-duty keys and closed around Sam's wrists, hiding half of the vile scars that the shirt had hidden. Another flare of anger sparked through Jacob at the reminder and he shot a glare back at Dean who matched his look, despite the fear that lingered in the depths of his eyes.

"Dario, go sort the other van. Make sure there's no trace of us or the vampire," Gemma instructed, her tone sharp. Dario nodded, a mirthless grin lightening his features. Both Jacob and Gemma turned when Dean shouted incoherently at them, realization of his friend's death finally hitting. Gemma moved over to him as Jacob set about fastening Sam's legs – there was no way he was leaving the responsibility to anyone else again. He watched her grab Dean round the back of his head, forcing him to stop wriggling and look up at her. " _Härzli,_ as enjoyable as your continued defiance is, you're going to completely wear yourself out before we get home and I can't have that," she crooned while Jacob rolled his eyes in disgust. "If having your brother here is too much of a distraction for you, I'll have you sleep off the whole of the rest of the trip."

 **SPN**

"Mmph!" Dean shook his head vigorously beneath her palm, his eyes wide and pleading despite himself. If she drugged him, that gave Jacob free access to Sam for the whole journey without any sort of comfort from his _real_ brother. Sam needed him and that was more important than his pride.

"Good boy," Gemma laughed, patting his cheek. "I've got to go up front, but too much noise from you and I _will_ come back here. Understand?"

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at her patronizing tone, Dean nodded once silently, her message totally clear. She let him go and Dean's eyes slid to his panting brother, his hands twisting uselessly in the manacles that pinioned his arms. Jacob had moved away momentarily and Sam tried to scoot himself forwards towards Dean, knowing where he was from his earlier cries.

"No you don't, Sammy," Jacob admonished, dragging Sam around and back by the chain around his middle until he was behind Dean. Sam moaned and hatred filled Dean as he twisted as far as he could to watch Jacob join two carabiners before hooking them from the chain to the back of the van, preventing Sam from moving forwards at all. His long legs were extended in front of him, bound at the ankle and knees the same as Dean.

The back doors opened and Dean looked down the length of the van, groaning quietly when Dario climbed in but not before Dean saw a flicker of a flame coming from beyond the doors.

 _Benny_.

They'd murdered their only friend who could track the boys anywhere in the world. And, while Benny had put a spanner in the works, forcing the Stynes to reunite the boys, neither Winchester was any better off.

"Time to go," Dario grinned down at him, Jacob chuckling as he sat down beside Sam, smirking at Dean when he tried to shift so that he could see him but the tethers holding him down wouldn't allow him enough freedom of movement.

Overwhelmed with his frustration, Dean's head sank to the floor as the van rumbled to life.

 **SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota… January 16, 2008)**

Bobby ambled through his living room towards the kitchen, staring out glumly at the rain hammering against the window pane. It had poured ceaselessly for the whole morning, drenching the already sodden ground in the yard. He'd planned to work on his latest car project but the damp had seeped into an old hunting wound in his knee and he knew that if he overused it, it'd give him hell for days. And it wasn't like he needed another thing to add to his sour mood.

Instead, he made for his drinks cupboard, bypassing the coffeepot he'd used all morning. He pushed aside one of the bottles of his own brew, reaching instead for the bottle of Johnny Walker Black he kept at the back. He didn't bother glancing at the clock – it was 6pm somewhere.

Pouring himself an ample amount into a tumbler, he left the bottle on the side, spying one of the leaflets he'd left lying around for Vegas. Taking a swig, Bobby picked it up, fantasizing about the sunshine down south. He didn't regret his decision to give the boys his vacation – he just hoped they were using it properly. In fact, it had been days since he'd spoken to them.

Grabbing his personal line, he keyed in Dean's number, planting it to his ear as he walked back to the couch with the phone ringing.

 **SPN**

 **(I-40, Outskirts of Amarillo, Texas… January 16, 2008)**

A familiar ringing sound – a guitar solo – broke the overbearing silence in the van, pulling Dean from his brooding. He'd been unable to turn himself over so that he was facing Sam, which, of course, had been Jacob's intention and he was exhausted from fighting constantly. He had no idea how long they'd been on the road and the aircon meant he could no longer tell their location by temperature. They'd stopped to refuel once but with all three Stynes and their servant there, Dean knew they had no chance of escaping.

Dean looked up, craning his neck to look for the source of the familiar noise. Dario fished around inside his jacket pocket, pulling out Dean's phone and staring down at the screen. Hope began to bloom again – when Sam had first been taken, Jacob had talked to John, taunted him over Sam's capture. Maybe they wouldn't be able to resist gloating again?

Dario turned the screen to show Jacob, giving Dean the view of his caller: Bobby. Dean twisted on his side, wishing that he could just reach out and grab the phone.

"Not your lucky day is it, boy?" Jacob laughed behind him. "Get rid of it. We don't want him tracking that when he realizes vacation's over."

"Nmmph!" Dean shouted, straining against his bindings as he watched Dario walk to the front of the van. He passed it to Gemma who yanked the battery out before sliding down her window and throwing it out. Sam whimpered behind him, unnerved by his howl but unable to fully hear what had happened.

Defeated, Dean slumped against the floor, unable to find it in him to fight anymore.

 **SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota… January 16, 2008)**

" _This is Dean's other, other cell so you must know what to do."_

The tone beeped as Bobby finished his mouthful of whiskey.

"Hey boys, just checkin' in. Guessin' you're out somewhere – you'd better be on a winnin' streak! If you're hustlin', for god's sake don't get caught. Anyways, hope you're enjoyin' yourselves and that Sam's keepin' y'outta trouble. Call me if y'need me."

Bobby hung up, satisfied with the idea that his boys were having a blast.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	16. Brutality

**Thanks for all the positivity!**

 **PLEASE BE WARNED: there is a LOT of hurt in this chapter. Like…a lot. We all know the Stynes aren't pleasant. You have been warned…**

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana… January 17, 2008)**

The driveway was dark, illuminated only by the small twinkling solar lights that paved the way towards the mansion. Nighttime reigned, with it the screech of a great-horned owl on the hunt through the sky. Gravel crunched beneath the van's tires as Giles drove slowly towards the Styne family home. Gemma rubbed the grit from her eyes, glad to finally be at the end of their journey. While she wasn't especially tired – it took more than a twenty-two hour drive to tire her out – it had been arduous, especially for the last fourteen when she'd been unable to play with Dean at all.

Yet she was still impressed with his stamina. And Sam's. Neither Winchester had succumbed to their exhaustion and slept. It would be good for her father: fatigued captives were much easier to interrogate since they wouldn't have their wits about them. They wouldn't think clearly. Any escape attempts – and she knew there would be some – would be easy to see coming and subsequently thwart. Gemma grinned at the idea: Dean was a handful and she was feeling more than up to the challenge of breaking him.

Up ahead, the house was bathed in light, the spotlights changed back to a more conservative white after the red of the New Year's party. The red carpet was gone from the veranda which was also illuminated, awaiting their arrival. As Giles pulled up beside the steps leading up to it, Gemma saw her parents appear in the doorway, Mortimer giving her a brief nod before leading his wife back into the house, two members of their household staff appearing in their place.

"We're home!" she declared in a singsong voice, turning and clasping her hands. Her eyes traveled hungrily down the length of Dean's prone body as she traced her tongue over her lower lip; it wouldn't be long now. Her eyes met Jacob's and she smiled at him reassuringly. "It's going to be fine, Jacob."

"I know," he replied, his tone unreadable. She enjoyed her cousin's company but she still couldn't completely fathom the depths of his relationship with the Winchesters – or more specifically: Sam. He was a curious creature. If he was worried about seeing her father again, she wasn't sure what the basis of it was: whether it was for himself or the boy. Or maybe he wasn't perturbed at all. She simply couldn't read him. Unlike Dario who was an open book and clearly itching to get started on one – or both – of their captives. If that was what her father insisted on, Gemma could do little to stop him. Not that it mattered a great deal.

There were plenty of ways for her to ensure that Dean was still useable.

"Let's get them in. I'm starving. Giles, help Jacob. Dario, with me," she instructed, walking down the length of the van until she came to a stop by Dean's head. She bent down, giving his hair a stroke before she reached around him and, using a knife that Dario passed to her, she sliced through the ropes holding Dean to the floor. His legs jerked out, finally released from their bent position. A loud groan escaped his throat as his legs straightened for the first time in hours. "That's better, isn't it? You can't say I don't make you feel better now, can you?" she laughed as she tracked her hands down his body, slowly working the tight muscles in his thighs, massaging the knots from them. She could tell he wanted to fight but his legs had seized and all he could do was clenched his eyes shut and try to swallow his moans as her thumbs worked at his legs.

Behind her, Jacob and Giles had already hauled Sam up and on his feet. Dean felt the van move and twisted to look, squirming away from her hands. "Alright, alright," she muttered, giving him a playful swat for his impatience. "Dario, help me with his legs." Together, they removed the bindings from his knees and readjusted the ones around his ankles so that he could walk but with short, halting steps much like his brother. They heaved him upright, holding onto either arm, as much to keep him standing as in his place. Jacob and Giles lowered Sam out of the van before Dario climbed out and bodily lifted Dean down, making his face flush with humiliation. He tried to shuffle to Sam, but Dario caught his arm and yanked, smirking down at him as Gemma looped her arm through Dean's right one as if he was escorting her.

All six of them made their way towards the mansion, Dean, Gemma noted, never letting his gaze leave his brother's back as Sam struggled to climb the steps blindly, Jacob helping him along. Despite their hobbled steps, it didn't take long to get their captives up and into the house, Dean finally looking over his shoulder when the staff closed and bolted the door with a sense of finality. She felt a shiver ripple through his skin and she smiled.

"Your father would like to see you in his office, Miss Gemma," one of the staff – Jackson – informed her with a curt nod of his head.

"Come along, Dean – we mustn't keep Father waiting," Gemma scolded lightly as Dean pulled against her and Dario, fighting to be free of their hold. But his exhaustion – and their superior strength – meant he was fighting another losing battle and the growl of frustration that emanated from him told her he knew it.

The Stynes dragged their captives through the entrance hall and down the left side of the grand staircase, their shoes clicking against the polished marble floor. They continued down a hall, a long moss-green rug running the length of it, the walls lined with old fashioned paintings encased in heavy gold frames that stood out against the stark white walls. The double doors at the end were open and lead into a formal office. It was lined with dark mahogany shelves, each one floor to ceiling with books except for the wall opposite Mortimer Styne's desk. That was decorated with a collection of swords and shields, all bearing the family coat of arms. They should: after all, they were all Mortimer's own weapons from previous lifetimes. A freestanding table – the kind waiters use in high-end restaurants – stood to one side, its top adorned with rows of carefully arranged tools of varying sizes and shapes.

The family patriarch sat behind the mammoth desk that was almost the width of the room, Charlotte at his side, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. A single wooden chair stood in front of it: a simple construction that was sturdy and was adorned with wide straps across its arms and front legs.

They hauled the Winchesters in as Mortimer rose and walked around the desk to appraise them.

 **SPN**

Sam was yanked to a stop, the stone floor beneath his bare feet adding to the chilling fear that was shooting up and down his spine. The world around him had gone silent after the van had stopped and he'd been pulled from it. Flashes of his first arrival at the Styne's mansion two years ago kept flashing in his mind's eye.

 _"So he's our legacy?"_ _Elizabeth had stood in front of him as Rhett eased him down to Mason, the sunlight making him wince after hours in the dark van. He'd felt exposed, vulnerable – a foreign feeling even though he'd given up hunting for college. She'd moved forwards, stroking his chest through his shirt. He'd tried to shrink away, but Mason's grip had held him still. The gravel dug into the balls of his feet, biting into the soft flesh of his arches._

 _They'd dragged him into the Styne mansion and, behind those doors, they'd inflicted a level of suffering on him so severe that it had almost destroyed him._

Its beginning was almost too similar to his current predicament which unsettled him with his captor's supposed confession.

 _Nothing's going to come between us again._

He wouldn't believe it.

"Put him there," an unfamiliar voice ordered, the tone hard and clipped.

And nearby.

Sam tried to step back but his captors maintained their hold, keeping him still. He may have been nearby, but he wasn't referring to Sam – he wasn't moved. Dean was still with him. The slightest tendrils of comfort tried to brush through Sam, knowing that he wasn't alone, but they didn't last.

Suddenly his world was blinding as the hood was finally ripped off his head, forcing him to clench his eyes shut. He almost moaned with relief when he took the first clean breath of air in what must have been over twenty hours.

A hand grabbed his jaw, wrenching his face down, snapping open Sam's bleary eyes. He looked into the stony features of a man in his fifties who glared up at him with hard grey eyes. Instinctively, Sam tried to push him back with his mind, but the man's fingers continued to dig into his cheeks through his gag.

"Your little parlor tricks won't work in here, _drecksau_ : the house is warded. There isn't a single square inch that isn't protected against you," he spat at Sam, making his eyes widen in alarm. Sam heard a grunt of surprise from Dean and he tried to look past the stranger before him. He caught a glimpse of his brother being manhandled into a chair by two other individuals – one he recognized as the girl from the casino.

Cold dread settled in his stomach. They'd been played, probably from the moment they stepped foot in Vegas. How had they not seen it coming?

Dean fought them, wrenching and twisting as they removed the ropes from his wrists. He half twisted, catching Sam's eye for a moment: rage and fear warring in his expression before he turned back, managing to wrestle one arm loose and strike the man Sam didn't know. But it was as though Dean had flicked him: he barely even seemed to register the blow as he grappled with Dean, grabbing his arm again and helping the girl – Gemma – shove him into the hardbacked chair.

The hands holding his arms fell away and Sam found himself looking back at the man before him. He took in the chiseled jawline, the broad shoulders and peppered hair, but it wasn't until he really looked into the frozen depths of the man's eyes that cold recognition finally smacked into him, leaving him breathless.

"You know who I am, don't you, whelp?" the man sneered. Fear rooted Sam, leaving him unable to respond – not that he could if he'd wanted to. But he remembered those eyes as they'd bored into his, hungry and savage. "Let me introduce myself: my name is Mortimer Styne. You took something from me at my son's wedding."

 _Victor._

"You killed him!" Mortimer growled, releasing Sam's jaw to deal him an explosive backhand to the face that sent Sam sprawling across the floor. He hit the marble hard with a muffled yelp as he jarred his broken fingers and smacked his head against the marble. Dazed, Sam lay winded on the cold stone, aware of blood dribbling from his nose, the man's polished shoes coming within inches of his face, forcing Sam to twist to look up at him through bangs that fell over his eyes. Suppressed rage lined the older man's face and Sam knew he was only getting started. The mirthless smirk confirmed it. "You have a lot to answer for. But first, I have business that is more important than you." Mortimer looked up and over Sam. "Keep him face down on the floor: where he belongs."

He turned on his heel and, for the first time in what felt like forever, Sam was almost too afraid to look behind him. It was like he was a child again and the monster in the closet was breathing down his neck.

A hand pressed down on his shoulder, holding him down but not twisting him onto his front – a small mercy that stopped him from lying on his broken fingers since his hands were chained in front of him. He suppressed a shudder as the voice that still woke him in the night crooned to him softly. "Sorry, Sammy."

It was too similar, too real. He had to look. Didn't want to.

 _Stop letting it control you. You're stronger than this._

Hating himself for his own fear, Sam steeled his nerves, taking a shaky breath before he twisted his head and looked up at the figure looming over him.

The steel faded, leaving him cold and almost paralyzed with terror. It couldn't be him. Sam couldn't go through this again.

An apologetic smile played on Jacob's lips, his blonde hair and tailored suit both impeccable despite the long hours of travel. He looked exactly the same… except…

Cold sweat shivered across Sam's skin, a whimper escaping his gag when he met Jacob's eyes. _Green_ eyes: ones that were the exact color of Dean's. They bore into his with such familiar intensity that Sam swallowed hard and tore his attention away, aiming it back at Dean, seeking comfort even though he knew his brother was in no position to be able to give it. The hand traced up his shoulder, holding him down firmly while Jacob's other hand reached up, brushing the bangs that had fallen into Sam's eyes, making him squirm uncomfortably at the affectionate touch.

 _Ignore it. Focus._

Swallowing hard, Sam fought to ignore the heat radiating from the oppressive hands, instead training his eyes on his brother. Dean was sat in the chair placed before the huge desk, facing away from Sam, his biceps bulging beneath his shirt as he tested the wide leather straps that had been applied to his wrists and ankles, anchoring him to the frame. Mortimer had walked back around his desk, settling himself into the plush leather chair. He nodded once to Gemma who had a tight hold on the back of Dean's gag, preventing him from turning his head to look for Sam. At Mortimer's instruction, she undid the cloth and pulled the other from his mouth. Dean took a huge breath in and Sam saw his tongue trace over his dry lips.

"Sammy, you ok?" Dean asked, twisting his head, ignoring the Stynes completely before they'd even started. The two brothers locked eyes and Sam gave a tiny nod – all he could manage while he was pinned to the floor. Dean's glare was livid at the sight of his predicament. "Get off him!" he snapped at Jacob viciously.

"Mr Winchester," Mortimer began, his baritone voice calm, with none of the malice he'd shown Sam.

But Dean ignore him, his lip curled in a snarl as he glared at Jacob. "Did I stutter?"

A weighted silence fell in the room and Sam could almost feel the grin Jacob was baring at Dean.

Mortimer sighed. "Jacob, remove the whelp." Immediately, Sam felt the hand on his shoulder slacken and he writhed in alarm.

"No!" Dean objected, his head snapping back round to face the older man, who quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Then I suggest you listen when you're spoken to," Mortimer chided. "If you can't follow a simple instruction like that, if your brother is too much of a distraction, he will be removed, and Jacob will be free to do whatever he sees fit with him."

The hand tightened back down on Sam's shoulder and he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut when he felt Jacob's thumb start to rub slow circles on the base of his neck. He didn't want to believe that he was the real Jacob, back from the dead, but he couldn't deny the anticipation rolling in waves off the man holding him down. He didn't need his abilities to be able to feel it. They'd been apart for two years: if it really was Jacob – god, he couldn't put into words how much he needed him not to be – then he was going to be relentless. Sam couldn't face that without Dean.

"Fine," Dean bit out, his voice low through his clenched teeth. "But if you hurt my brother, I ain't tellin' you a damned thing."

Mortimer locked eyes with him. "Let me be frank with you, Dean: I have little interest in you besides the information you possess. But your brother killed my son; I am… eager make him suffer using every resource I have at my disposal –"

Sam bucked, panic making him tremble. He knew what the Stynes were capable of; he remembered what Victor had been like. Behind him, Jacob shushed him so quietly that only he could hear, the sound having the opposite effect of its intention. Jacob's hand tightened again, pressing him into the cold floor.

"– Nevertheless, I'm willing to bargain with you. Answer my questions and I'll spare your brother. You have my word. Understood?" Mortimer continued, Sam's struggle going unnoticed.

"Bullshit," Dean spat, his voice hard and unconvinced. "You're gonna do whatever the hell you want. I tell you anythin' and we're dead anyway."

Mortimer's lip twitched as he rubbed his fingers across the stubble peppering his chin. He scrutinized Dean carefully before his eyes flickered to Gemma who was still stood beside him. "If you would," he instructed. Sam watched, suspicion knitting his brow, as Gemma leaned down close to Dean's ear, her hand stroking along the back of his neck, caressing the soft hairs at the edge of his hairline.

When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost hypnotic. "Dean, you know you don't want to fight. You're tired of it… you can save yourself a lot of pain if you just… give in. Don't fight it, _härzli_."

Sam's stomach dropped as he listened to her. He knew exactly what she was doing; Missouri and Pamela had both covered the ability to mesmerize people and how it could be used. It wasn't an area they'd done much work on but he knew the fundamentals of how it worked: the right tone, the right touch and the subject would do whatever they were told. It was a lethal ability, one that she'd probably used to lure Dean into her clutches in the first place. Sam watched, dread pooling as Dean turned to look up at her.

"Nice try, bitch," Dean sneered and Sam felt pride swell when Gemma blinked in surprise. "You fooled me once 'cause my guard was down. But here's the thing: when you have a psychic for a brother, you learn to build walls that wannabes like you can't get through."

Tension rolled through the room, shock registering with every single Styne Sam could see. Clearly, Gemma wasn't used to failure. A sudden giggle snapped the pressure, drawing Sam's gaze to her: she was grinning broadly – the look a far cry from the reaction he'd expected – as she leaned in close to whisper in Dean's ear. Sam watched Dean tense, his shoulders going rigid.

"Gemma!" Mortimer's bark was sharp, making Sam flinch, but Gemma took her time finishing whatever she was saying before she stepped back and walked across the room to stand near a wall. Dean didn't respond to whatever she said and that was more worrying than if he'd exploded at her. He was rattled – Sam could see it. Luckily, the Stynes couldn't: they didn't know him well enough to realize that.

Another woman stepped forward – one that Sam didn't recognize, but her relation to Gemma was undeniable – her palm creating a resounding crack as she struck Dean across the face.

"I don't think you quite realize the position you're in," she snapped, glaring down at him, her eyes evaluating him and Sam saw her gaze linger on Dean's left hand. "If you don't tell us what we want to hear, one – or both of you – will leave here in pieces."

Dean turned his head to the side, spitting out a glob of blood onto the marble floor. He looked up at her. "You think you're the first to try this on us?"

She sneered down at him. "I can see we aren't." Sam's dread rose again as Dean shifted in his chair. It hadn't been that long since he'd been sat in a similar position. "Dario, if you would?"

The tallest Styne stepped forward and Sam's eyes widened. He writhed, growling in frustration when Jacob refused to let him rise. Dario sauntered over, towering over both Dean and who he assumed was Gemma's mother, a wall of muscle who wore a sadistic, eager grin as he stared down at Dean with hunger in his eyes. The memory of his broken fingers being twisted flashed through Sam's mind: it had been him. All the Stynes were cruel but there was something… worse about Dario. Jacob was cruel through his misguided sense of loyalty and discipline. There was a reason – as messed up as it was – for his actions. But Dario was different: Sam could see it. He inflicted pain simply because he enjoyed it.

"I'll tell you whatever you want," Dean began, his tone still hard and calm despite Dario looming over him, "On one condition: you let my brother go. You do that, and I'll give you whatever it is."

"Mmph!" Sam protested, drawing looks from all of them, except Dean. He bucked hard, trying to maneuver himself enough to get out from under Jacob's grasp. Jacob's hands switched, one leaving his neck to move to his shoulder and the other reaching over him to grab his broken fingers. He squeezed until Sam's protest became a moan, tears pricking his eyes. He struggled until the squeezing got harder, forcing him to still. Only then did Jacob slacken his hold, but he didn't remove his grip.

Mortimer looked back at Dean and gave him a condescending smile. "Be reasonable, Mr Winchester: I'm afraid that's not possible. But my offer still stands: Sam stays, but he doesn't have to suffer. You see, we have other plans for him."

"You already hurt him: you Stynes don't know how to do anythin' else. Your word means nothing. So screw you. I ain't tellin' you jack," Dean snapped.

The Styne patriarch smirked. "We'll see. Charlotte."

Sam watched the woman – Charlotte – close in on his brother again, her eyes hard. "No one is impressed by your display of bravado. But I can see you're a stubborn one so let me keep it simple for you: where is the book?"

"What?" Her question caught Dean off-guard, but she didn't care. She grabbed his left hand, digging her finger into the exposed nailbed of his index finger: the one the Carrigans had ripped the nail from. He gasped, swallowing a shriek, at the unexpected contact, his arm bucking as he tried to wrench away.

"Dean doesn't fancy himself as a screamer, does he?" Jacob murmured softly, his breath warm on the back of Sam's neck, making him shiver. "We'll see if Aunt Charlotte and Dario can change that." Sam moaned, writhing until the grip on his fingers tightened. "Shhhh, little brother: there's a lesson for you here, too. Just watch."

"We're not playing around, _drecksau._ Where is the Book of the Damned?" Charlotte demanded, releasing Dean's finger.

Oh god… Realization hit Sam like a kick to the gut. Of course that was what they wanted. The Stynes were powerful anyway, but the Book of the Damned gave them abilities beyond anything he could fathom. With it, they would cause destruction on a global scale… and benefit every step of the way.

They would be unstoppable.

"Screw you, bitch," Dean snarled. Horror filled Sam: neither of them had any idea where it even was. Bobby and Benny had taken it… only they knew where it was. And now Benny was dead.

And they were going to torture his brother until they got answers. But he couldn't give them even if he wanted to. Helplessness surged through Sam: there was nothing he could do to stop them.

"Giles, the table please. Dario, do help yourself to whatever you like," Charlotte instructed as Giles moved across the room, wheeling the freestanding table over and parking it beside Dario, giving Dean a clear view of what was on it. Sam could guess.

Dean huffed a mirthless laugh. "Could you be any more of a cliché?"

"You've got quite the mouth, haven't you?" Dario observed, picking up a pair of silver pliers from the table, inspecting them closely before looking at his captive. "I'm going to enjoy taking that from you."

"Better than you have tried and, yet, here I am," Dean goaded, but Sam could hear the apprehension in his voice.

Dario's smile spread wide. "I like a challenge. But I'll give you a chance. Where's the book?"

"Screw you," Dean ground out through his teeth. Sam flinched when Dario reached out, taking his time, hooking his hand around Dean's middle and ring fingers.

 _Not again._

Both Winchesters knew what was coming and Sam's stomach dropped as Dario casually hooked the pliers onto the nail of Dean's middle finger, adjusting his grip, refusing to rush as he drew his gaze up to meet Dean's. He smiled.

And yanked.

Dean's whole body jerked but he refused to utter a sound even though Sam knew it hurt like hell. He saw a flicker of annoyance darken Dario's eyes before he latched onto Dean's other finger, this time pulling slow and hard. A quiet keening bubbled from Dean's throat as he struggled in the chair, trying not to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

"Where's the book, Dean?" he asked, stepping back and releasing the bloodied nail onto the floor.

It took Dean a moment to reply, his shoulders heaving as Sam watched him breathe through the waves of agony. When he did speak, his tone was hard despite the light tremble in his voice. "Go to hell."

"And you call me the cliché," Dario laughed, swiftly backhanding Dean across the face. Sam squirmed when he saw a cut well on Dean's cheek. Dario looked down at his knuckles and frowned. "You bled on my ring. That was rude."

"Untie me and I'll do worse," Dean growled, spitting out a tooth besides the Styne's foot.

A ripple of laughter drifted through the room as Dario smirked down at his captive, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbing the blood from his signet ring. "I'm sure you'd give it a good _try_."

He turned his back on Dean, leisurely perusing the instruments on the table. Sam watched him hover his hand over several items, moving back and forth, deliberately making Dean wait, before he picked up long-handled claw hammer, its rounded end about the size of a golf ball. Dario turned twirling it like it was a well-balanced baton as he stepped up to Dean once more.

Panic tore through Sam. Fingernails hurt like a bitch but they could grow back. Whatever he was about to do with that hammer most likely wouldn't. He thrashed, heaving against Jacob's hold, ignoring the way he was clamping down on his broken fingers again. Pain lanced up his arm, but he didn't care; Dean was about to get much worse if he didn't do… _something_. He fought physically and mentally, trying with everything he had to push Dario back, to rip the hammer from his hand, to do whatever it took to make him leave Dean alone. But nothing happened even as his desperation grew.

"It's ok, Sam," Dean called out, his voice level and calm, like he'd accepted his fate which made Sam's panic rise further. He turned to give his little brother a reassuring smile when he heard Sam's incoherent bellows. Tears stung Sam's eyes as he shook his head vehemently. It wasn't ok. This was never going to be ok!

"Enough, little brother. You can't stop him," Jacob soothed, finally realizing he wasn't going to stop. He swung his leg over Sam, straddling him and grabbing his gag to hold his head still. Sam moaned, hating his helplessness, his vulnerability and Jacob's ability to subdue him.

"Where's the book, Dean?" Dario asked, mock boredom tinging his tone. He released his grip on the hammer, letting it slide slowly through his palm until he was gripping it by the base. He lined it up with Dean's left knee.

"Bite me," Dean growled, squirming in the chair as Dario began slowly swinging the hammer like a pendulum, never quite making contact, but making the threat clear. Sam saw Dean jerk his leg but the strap around his ankle stopped him from being able to move it out of the way.

Dario shrugged, tightening his grip. "Have it your way."

Dean's howl scorched through the room, ripped from his throat as the hammer smashed into his knee. Sam cried out for his brother, his eyes wide as tears fell, but Jacob gripped him harder, his laughter reverberating down into Sam. Dean's head slumped forwards and, for a moment, Sam thought he'd passed out. He wished he had – then they'd have to leave him alone.

But Dario snagged a handful of his hair and yanked his head up, grinning broadly at him. "Told you I'd make you scream. Imagine how that's going to feel if I hit it again, in the exact. same. spot." He gave Dean's shattered kneecap the smallest nudge, making him shriek. "Now, where's the book?"

"I don't know," Dean gasped, his voice ragged.

In front of him, Mortimer sighed. "Enough, Dario. I see you want to play games, Mr Winchester. Fine. We'll see how you feel in after twenty-four hours' apart from your brother."

Charlotte nodded her agreement before leaning in to look at Dean in the eye. "And think about it: if you thought _this_ was painful, just imagine what we've got planned for Samuel…"

"No!" Dean's shout was pained as he instantly strained against the straps on his arms. Instant panic fell from him in waves. "Don't! Look, we don't know where the damned book is!"

"You had your chance to tell us what you knew; you can think about the consequences of your arrogance in the meantime. Then we'll try again," Mortimer replied, nodding to Dario and Giles.

Dean's voice became frantic as the two men descended on him, unbuckling the straps holding him down. "Don't hurt him! You touch him and I swear –"

"Do hurry up: inane threats are the last thing I need to hear," Mortimer interrupted him, looking across when Gemma walked over to him. She leaned in, her hand on the back of his chair as she murmured something to him. The patriarch studied her for a moment before nodding. He turned back to Dario. "Take him to Gemma's quarters. Jacob, see to the runt: take him somewhere out of my sight. And… uncomfortable."

"No! Stop!" Dean bellowed, fighting as Dario and Giles grabbed each of his arms and hauled him up. He cried out as the movement jarred his broken knee and he crumpled, barely able to support his own weight. He stood heavily on his good leg, looking over his shoulder, eyes desperately seeking Sam's. "Sam!"

"Mmph!" Sam responded, locking eyes with his brother, trying to convey a message of comfort to him even as he felt alarm spike through him when he saw the blood coating Dean's cheek and dripping from his maimed fingers. Jacob finally released him, heaving him up and off the floor as Dean was dragged from the room, still calling for his brother. Jacob pulled Sam close when he resisted.

"Don't worry about him, boy; Gemma's going to make sure Dean gets the treatment he deserves," Jacob murmured in his ear, making Sam twist uncomfortably, a new sense of foreboding overtaking his fear. "But you and I need a fresh start, little brother. Let's go back to the beginning."

 **SPN**

 **Please review (and forgive me!)!**


	17. Separated

**Thank you for all the positivity with the last chapter! I was worried it was a bit brutal, but I'm glad so many of you enjoyed it.**

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana… January 17, 2008)**

"Sam! SAM!"

Despite the agony ripping along every nerve, Dean couldn't let it consume him. Sam needed him; he needed Sam. They had to get out. But his shattered knee made white sparks explode behind his eyes as Dario and Giles hauled him along the corridor back to the front of the mansion. They dragged him, his leg unable to support his weight and his mutilated fingers throbbed when he tried to wrench away. Despite his best efforts to remain stoic, tears pricked in his eyes. It wasn't the first time he had been tortured — and he knew all too well how much worse this nightmare would get if they failed to escape.

Especially for Sam.

Fear lanced through him, overtaking his pain, making him fight harder.

"Let me go! SAM!"

" _Härzli_ , you're just going to hurt yourself more," Gemma chided, a patronizing smile dancing on her lips when he twisted around to look at her. She met his gaze, the smile becoming knowing, her blue eyes sparkling eagerly.

"Please…" Dean pleaded, hating himself for the tremble in his voice. "Don't hurt him: Sam doesn't..." he swallowed the bile that rose when his foot jarred his knee, "he doesn't know anything!"

"Giles," Dario barked when they reached the foot of the massive grand staircase. "Drop him."  
Dean abruptly collapsed, stars shooting in his vision as he hit the marble floor. His arms were free, and for the first time since he was dragged into that friggin' van, he had nothing restraining him. He needed to get up: fight. Get to Sam. But when he tried to push himself up, his knee brushed against the floor, and the burst of pain nearly made him lose consciousness, his arms buckling.

A hand snagged Dean's hair and yanked his head back. Dario was leaning over him, their faces an inch apart. "You can beg all you want, Dean," he sneered vindictively. "But we're going to make your brother's life a living hell, and we are not going to stop until we have the book in our possession. If you want to protect him, then relinquish the book. It's that simple."

"Dario!" Gemma snapped, launching herself forward.

Dean's head smacked the floor as Dario released him instantly, but not in time to avoid his cousin as she slapped her hand across his face. Dean watched in astonishment — and horror — as the petite woman squared off against the much larger man. Anger flashed through Dario's eyes before it was carefully schooled and extinguished. He backed away.

"How many times do I have to say it?" Gemma snarled, angrier than Dean had seen her yet. "Learn your place!"

"I... apologize," Dario replied slowly, giving Dean the feeling that he loathed stooping. "I got carried away. It won't happen again."

Gemma fumed, running a hand through her hair. It only took a moment to compose herself, and then she glanced down at Dean with a stern expression. He trembled, completely at her mercy, and well aware of her intentions.

"You have to understand, Dario," she murmured, almost entranced, keeping her gaze fixed on Dean. "I've never had a toy like this before. He's...resistant to me. Even if I wanted to mesmerize him, he's built a wall to keep me out. It's a strange new challenge, and I want him. For myself."

Dean's blood ran cold.

"I understand, Gemma," Dario assured her, although the look he shot Dean spoke another message: one that froze his blood. "He's yours."

She sighed, shaking her head. "I can't trust you with him. I don't want you anywhere near him."  
Dean's fear rumbled through him, reignited: Dario was itching to hurt someone, and if Gemma wouldn't let him hurt Dean, that only left Sam. He could still hear that other bitch's voice.

 _"If you thought this was painful, just imagine what we've got planned for Samuel…"_

No...he couldn't let them. He turned to her, his eyes desperate.

"Gemma…"

"Hush, Dean," she lightly chastised, pressing her index finger to her lips. "Don't make me gag you again so soon."

"Hurting Sam won't change anything! We don't know where the book is!"

"You had your chance to talk tonight. So now, we wait," she smiled provocatively. "And I can think of ways to pass the time."

Dean glared up at her, his jaw clenched. "Bitch!"

"Jackson!" Gemma called out to a man standing inconspicuously by the large front door. Like the rest of the Stynes, he wore professional attire, but judging from his dark hair and subservient demeanor, he wasn't part of the family. "Would you please be kind enough to help Giles attend to our young guest here? I want him cleaned up and safely delivered to my quarters."

No, no, no, no! Dean tried pushing up with his good leg, but he was out of strength and nausea pinned him to the floor.

"I'll be up shortly," Gemma continued, ignoring him. "After I find something to eat. I'm starving. If he gets too rowdy, feel free to restrain him. Whatever is necessary. But please, no more blood. I hate the mess."

Her gaze dropped back down to Dean, who looked up at her in dread. "Don't worry, _härzli_. I'll bring you up a drink. Tonight will be a good night for you. Trust me."

Dean watched as she turned on her heel, waving for Dario to follow her, leaving him on the floor with Giles and Jackson looming over him. Between them, they hauled him up, dragging him up the stairs to the second-floor landing, where they turned right and proceeded through another long corridor. Neither of them spoke. They didn't even react when he gasped, trying to hold in the pained cries that threatened to echo down the hall as every movement sent a shockwave of agony through him.

The door to Gemma's quarters stood about halfway down the hall. It led into an apartment-sized suite with an extravagant sitting room in addition to the bedroom. Dimly lit with half-moon wall sconces, each room had massive windows curtained with sheer drapes. The pale-blue walls led up to a tray ceiling trimmed with crown molding, and the fireplace featured a marble mantel that matched the cold hard floor.

As they passed through the bedroom on their way to the bathroom, Dean couldn't help but stare at the bed — a king-sized monstrosity with a lavender coverlet and six pillows. The mahogany headboard and footboard were framed with ornate cannonball posts, and Dean had no doubt how Gemma planned to use them; she had described it all in detail back in the van.

 _Oh härzli… I've been bored for so long. And you just made this so much more exciting. I can't wait to see what else you can resist when we're alone._

Dean could still feel the shiver of her breath against his skin as she'd whispered to him in Mortimer's office, making the pit of his stomach drop into the floor. He tried to pull back, but the two men holding him barely even registered his defiance.

"In here," Jackson grunted, leading the way into the master bathroom. Nearly the size of the two former rooms, it was more extravagant than anything Dean had ever seen before, with a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, gold frames around the enormous mirrors, and pilasters adorning the marble walls. The walk-in shower was across from the luxurious bathtub, and candles were scattered around the multiple vanities.

Dean bit back a cry as they manhandled him to the floor, forcing him onto his back with his legs stretched out straight, his left noticeably trembling uncontrollably. Jackson stood and left the room, but Dean knew that, even if he could get the jump on Giles, there was no way he was running out of the room.

"Please, Mr. Winchester," Giles began in a soft but stern voice, with that now-familiar European accent. He rested one hand on Dean's shoulder, keeping him on the floor. "I would urge you to cooperate; this is going to happen regardless and it will be far less painful for you if you don't resist."

"Go to hell," Dean seethed through his teeth, watching as Jackson reappeared in the room, a pile of clothes in his arms.

"Shall I fetch the shears, sir?" Jackson asked, his voice almost mechanical: dispassionate in the extreme. Dean's eyes widened and his heart began to race; they couldn't be serious!

Giles appraised at Dean carefully. "No, that won't be necessary. However, please find something we can use to clean off the blood."

Jackson nodded and turned to rummage through the vanity cabinets as Giles grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt. The hunter lashed out immediately with his right hand, landing a blow on Giles' cheek, temporarily stunning the older man so that his grip loosened. He fell back and Dean scrambled away, pulling himself backwards, his left leg lying uselessly out in front of him as he got his right leg underneath him. Something clattered on the floor behind him and, before he could react, an arm snaked around his neck, pinning him.

"Get off me!" he choked, grappling with Jackson's arm, but unable to get a grip with his left hand. Giles came up beside him, looking down at him without a trace of emotion in his features. A scream ripped from Dean's throat when the man's polished shoe connected with his shattered knee. Bolts of agony fired through his senses, overwhelming him until it was simply too much for his body. The pain fell away as Dean slumped back against Jackson, his awareness gone.

 **SPN**

A faint scream resounded down the corridor, stopping Sam dead in his tracks. He turned, eyes frantic at the sound, knowing it was Dean. The chain around his waist tightened as Jacob tugged on it.

"C'mon, little brother," he ordered, but Sam dug his heels in.

"Mmph!"

Jacob sighed and grabbed Sam's jaw with his free hand, forcing him to look at him. "Listen: it doesn't matter how much you might want to go to him, you need to realize that the only thing you're going to accomplish here is irritating me. I know we've been apart for a while, Sammy, but I'm pretty sure you remember what that's like."

A vision of a dark semi-truck, a dog cage and the ghost of a slap to his face pulsed through Sam's mind. He would never be able to forget what Jacob's wrath was like. And he knew how bad things were going to get without him making them worse.

Reluctantly, he shuffled forwards when Jacob yanked on his bonds once again. Sam's heart pounded as they moved further down the hall, moving further away from Dean, heading towards a different quarter of the mansion. He barely registered the design or layout as he fought to control his panic. All he could focus on was the feel of the walls closing in, the feel of the chains seemingly tightening as they moved further and further away from freedom.

He looked up when a door clicked and Jacob pulled him through. Gazing around, he squirmed uneasily when he took in the interior of the bathroom. It wasn't huge or particularly extravagant, but it held the feel of luxury that the Stynes were used to. Jacob stopped him and turned, holding his gaze.

"It's been a long journey, boy, and it's gonna be a long night for you," Jacob stated, fishing in his jacket pocket with his spare hand. "But, since we're family and I'm feeling… generous, you get a bathroom break. I don't have to tell you what'll happen if Uncle Mortimer finds out. He specifically said to keep you uncomfortable. So I hope you appreciate the risk I'm taking for you." Sam suppressed the urge to roll his eyes as Jacob continued. "But, besides anything, I can't bear to see you dressed this way." Sam glared at him when he appraised Sam's mismatched sweatpants and Dario's dress shirt as he pulled a key from his pocket. It was _his_ fault Sam was dressed like this! "Therefore, I'm going to give you ten minutes to sort yourself out and get changed. You'll find a fresh set of clothes in the cabinet. I'm trusting you, little brother – I could dress you myself, but I'd rather give you the chance to play nice. If you refuse, there will be consequences: you know that."

Sam suppressed a shiver, knowing that they weren't idle threats. With Jacob, nothing ever was. Jacob crouched down, fiddling with the knots in the rope hobbling Sam. The urge to lash out was overwhelming, but Sam fought it. There was no point attacking Jacob when he's arms were still bound. He'd just piss him off and then he'd lose any shot at being untied. If he was going to be able to escape, he needed that to happen.

The rope fell away and Jacob stood, grabbing the manacles around Sam's wrists and unlocking them. His gaze travelled up to meet Sam's again. "Now, I'm gonna stand outside the door and, in ten minutes, I'm coming back in. If you're not done, I _will_ help you finish. And you don't touch that gag: if anyone hears you, it's on your head. Am I clear?"

Sam nodded slowly, but his glare spoke volumes. He didn't move as the chains came off, his hands remaining where they were as Jacob let go. The smaller man stepped back and Sam lashed out instantly, blindly, his desperation clouding his judgement. He fought in a frenzy of movement, swinging his fists, ignoring his broken fingers, hoping to stun Jacob long enough to get past him. But Jacob countered every hit, a grin spreading across his face, enraging Sam further. He barreled into Jacob, slamming him back against the wall, but Jacob bore the impact, sliding himself under Sam's arm, twisting and grabbing it as he danced around him. Sam's legs buckled as Jacob kicked the back of his knees, dropping him to the floor. They landed together, Jacob grabbing hold of both of Sam's wrists and holding them against the small of his back as he pressed him into the floor. Sam bellowed, twisting uselessly as Jacob sat on top of him until he stilled.

"Luckily for you, Sammy, I knew you'd do that," Jacob scolded lightly, his tone almost…satisfied. "That was your one free shot. I'm still gonna let you have some privacy, but if you try that again, you lose that privilege, am I clear?" His grip tightened until Sam nodded. "Good. Do keep in mind: I spared Dean. The more you fight me, the more you'll make me regret that decision. The others need him to find the book, but I don't care about it. I care about _you_. And if you test my patience, boy, I'll kill him as quickly as I killed the vampire, book or no book, you understand?"

Sam moaned, his heart thumping in his chest. Jacob would kill Dean; that the rest of the family needed him had been the only thing keeping him alive around Jacob. But Sam knew how deep his obsession ran – he would put Sam before their needs without hesitation. He'd done it before.

"You've got ten minutes," Jacob repeated, giving Sam's hair an affectionate stroke before he climbed off the younger man and grabbed the discarded rope and chains. Sam stayed on the floor as the door closed and a lock bolted home. Pulling himself up, he reached up and yanked the cloth from across his mouth and spat out the wadded one. Angrily, he untied the knot and wrenched it from around his neck, throwing both away from him. He groaned quietly, flexing his stiff jaw as he moved to the sink, turning the faucet and scooping palmfuls of water into his mouth. He drank greedily, the cold water smacking into his empty stomach. Turning it off, Sam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned around, surveying the room.

It was simple and white, completely spotless. And empty. There were no decorations: no vases, no bowls, nothing Sam could use as a weapon. There wasn't even a mirror he could break. That Jacob had brought him to this bathroom was no surprise. Quietly, he opened the vanity cabinet and checked the cupboards. All were empty bar one: a neat pile of clothes sitting on a shelf. His stomach plummeted.

There was no way he was going to wear them!

And yet, even as his mind railed against it, the memory of waking up wearing different clothes the first time he was held captive hit him.

 _If you're not done, I will help you finish._

Jacob meant it: he always did. Shame burned hot against Sam's cheeks as he pulled the clothes from the shelf and dumped them in a messy pile on the side next to the bath. His fingers trembled with barely contained rage as he ripped the dress shirt off over his head, crumpling it up and throwing it into the corner of the room. He undressed quickly, aware that his time was quickly slipping through his fingers. The sooner he got this over with, the more time he could spend on a plan.

 _What's the point?_

The voice in his head was timid and defeated all at once. It was a tone Sam recognized from two years ago: it was the voice of the Sam that had been defeated by Jacob then. But he wasn't that kid anymore: he was stronger. Brutally, he shoved that Sam back down. There was a point.

Dean.

He had to save his brother. There was nothing more important than that. _He_ knew what the Stynes were capable of; Dean didn't and Sam didn't want him to. There was a reason why he'd kept so much of what had happened to him from his big brother.

Yanking on the clothes – black slacks and a light blue button up shirt with long sleeves – Sam forced his exhausted mind to refocus rather than dwelling on the past. It was a hole that would suck him in if he let it and he didn't have time. Dean was hurting _now._ And the only way he could stop it was to get past Jacob.

Running his good hand back through his hair, Sam looked around him once again. Nausea hit him when he realized the hopelessness of the situation. It was all well and good quelling the old Sam and his fears, but, at the end of it all, he was justified. Jacob had backed him into a corner. Again.

 _I care about_ you _. And if you test my patience, boy, I'll kill him as quickly as I killed the vampire._

If he tried to run again so soon, all he would only put Dean in danger. No matter what he did, whichever way he turned, he was screwed.

Although…there was Gemma. She wouldn't let Jacob at Dean easily – if she knew he wanted to kill Dean, she would stop him. At least, for the moment. Not that she was an ally: not in the slightest. But what other options were there?

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Sam finished using the facilities given to him, and had hardly finished buttoning up his shirt before he heard the lock turn. Even though he couldn't see a clock, he doubted Jacob had given him the full ten minutes.

When the Styne entered, he gave Sam a reproachful look, closing the door behind him. "What did I tell you about that gag?"

Sam glared at him, his mouth set in a hard line, his voice croaking when he spoke. "Did you hear me while you were outside? No."

"Watch your tone, boy," Jacob snapped, his eyes narrowing.

"Screw you!" Sam fired back even as his fear began to creep up again. "I'm not living this charade again: _we are not family_!"

"It's not a charade, Sammy," Jacob replied coolly, the chains rattling in his grip. "I realize it'll take some time to restore our bond given how long we were separated for, and I accept that. But we have all the time we'll need. That said, you'd best work on your manners. I can protect you from Uncle Mortimer's wrath, but he does want to punish you for Victor's death. And he'll find a way. But, I'm sure I can convince him that Dean is the perfect scapegoat. If you make a scene, though, you'll provoke him. Dario too. You saw how eager he is to hurt someone. I should be able to keep him focused on Dean, but you have to behave yourself."

"You don't get it, do you?" Sam spat, his voice livid. "I would rather die than have them anywhere near my brother! I don't care what happens to me but, I swear, if you touch him…"

"You'll what, little brother?" Jacob smiled. "Don't make idle threats against me. I'm stronger and I can do so much worse to you." Sam fell silent, hating that Jacob was right. Again. "Now, we're going to put these back on and get you settled in for the night. And we're gonna do it without fuss. Give me your hands." Sam didn't move. Jacob's eyes narrowed. "Are you really going to make me repeat myself?"

Frustration welled as the seconds passed. Sam stared at Jacob with mounting dread. He knew he couldn't win this fight: he had not weapons, two broken fingers and very little energy left. Against Jacob's enhancements, he had no advantage. Hell, it was the biggest disadvantage going. But he couldn't… he couldn't just stand there and accept his captivity, especially not when Dean was in danger.

 _Go down swinging…_

Without thinking, Sam kicked his leg up and booted Jacob back several steps. Barreling forwards, he slammed past Jacob in a desperate charge out of the bathroom. His heart hammered frantically as he escaped into the hallway, Jacob hot on his heels.

"Not so fast!" He made a grab for Sam's arm, but Sam twisted enough to get him with a right hook, driving him back.

He raced forwards, knowing he had to put some distance between himself and Jacob – find a weapon… hide, if necessary. He made it a few more paces before he pitched forwards, Jacob tackling him bodily from behind. They hit the ground hard, Sam crushed between the floor and the weight of his assailant.

"Get off!" He roared, aiming his elbow at Jacob's head, but only managing a glancing blow.

Jacob sat up, pressing his knee into Sam's back while snatching his arm. Sam grunted, writhing with all his strength, but Jacob would not be dislodged. A cold snap warned him of the open shackle, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Always gotta make things difficult, don't you, boy?" Jacob taunted as he effortlessly fastened the shackle around Sam's wrist. He proceeded to grab Sam's other arm, wrenching it painfully behind his back.

"Stop!" Sam objected, but Jacob was relentless. The second shackle closed around his wrist, and a moment later, Jacob's fingers were tangled in Sam's hair, yanking his head back.

"That wasn't very smart, Sammy," he growled. "Do you want me to kill Dean?"

"You can't kill Dean and still use him as a scapegoat!" Sam retorted angrily. "Make up your damn mind!"

"Fair point," Jacob allowed, the irritation fading from his voice. He loosened his grip on Sam's hair, but otherwise did not release him. " You're absolutely right. I'm sorry that I gave you mixed signals. From now on, I'll be much more consistent."

Crap… that wasn't what he'd meant. "Let me go!" he growled, struggling when Jacob hauled him to a sitting position and pulled him close, wrapping his arm around Sam's torso.

"Fighting me isn't getting you anywhere. If you keep going, I'm gonna tie you down so you can't move," Jacob crooned, his breath hot against Sam's ear.

"What else is new?" Sam grumbled, squirming to get away. He grunted when Jacob's hand clapped over his mouth, holding him against his chest.

"Your backchat won't do you any favors. Unless you want to coax Uncle Mortimer up here, keep your mouth shut," Jacob murmured, his voice remaining calm. "'Cause right now, I'm more inclined to help him punish you. You're way outta line. So start _behaving_."

Sam wrenched his head away, Jacob's hand dropping. "I hate you!"

"You won't always," Jacob replied, a smile in his voice as he hauled Sam to his feet, keeping a tight hold on the chain between his wrists. "You're gonna walk properly or I will carry you there. Your choice."

"I'm not a kid," Sam ground out through his teeth. Jacob pushed him forwards, one hand on his shoulder as he marched him back along the corridor.

"You're my kid brother: it's the same thing," Jacob shrugged, his fingers digging in when Sam dug his feet in. He struggled and bucked, refusing to stop fighting. He lashed out with his feet until Jacob turned him, slamming him against a wall. "You want it the hard way? Fine."

Yanking Sam away from the wall, Jacob hefted him over his shoulder, wrapping an iron grip across the back of his thighs.

"Jacob, stop!" Sam groaned, bucking as much as his could despite the pressure of Jacob's shoulder digging into his abdomen.

"You brought this on yourself."

He could do nothing but watch the back of Jacob's legs as he walked down the hall, moving him further away from freedom – and Dean.

Before long, Jacob stopped and a door lock clicked. Sam twisted as much as he could, trying to see where they were headed. Beyond the door was a flight of unpainted stairs and a dim light. Sam's heart thumped.

No…

"Yes, Sammy," Jacob's reply surprised him; he hadn't realized he'd uttered it aloud. "Just like old times. I told you we were going back to the beginning."

"Jacob, please," Sam gasped, renewing his struggles, but Jacob climbed the stairs unperturbed.

"No. You don't get a say in your accommodation and, considering your behavior, I don't have much sympathy for you. Face it, Sammy: the time out will be good for you."

They reached the top, Jacob's feet thumping across the bare boards. It was a cavernous space: one that was clearly sectioned off across the expanse of the house, but it was relatively empty. Yet another reminder that the Stynes were back – but only recently. Only a few crates were scattered around and it was notably cooler than the rest of the house, despite the Louisiana temperatures. Jacob stopped and tipped forwards, planting Sam back on his feet before knocking them straight out from under him so that he fell to the floor, crying out when he landed on his fingers. Jacob was at his side in an instant, pulling him upright and fiddling with the manacles on his wrists. He heard metal scrape across the floor and, when he looked down and behind him, he saw two chains – each no more than a foot long – anchored to the floor. Two loud snaps came from behind him before he felt the tension between his wrists loosen and disappear. Instantly, Sam jerked both arms, finding them independent of each other but now shackled to the floor. He had some movement, but a wave of nausea hit when he realized he couldn't stand. Hell, he could even reach up to his own head. It dragged forth his memory of the first time he'd been in one of their attics: chained to the floor then as well, with Rhett forcing cold soup down his throat.

Sam swallowed back bile.

"A bit more lenient than you deserve, don't you think?" Jacob goaded as he crouched on his heels in front of Sam. "Look, I realize you're overwhelmed, and I promise we'll take it slow… but if you insist on acting out, I have no choice but to be strict with you. Otherwise, you'll never learn."

Sam shrank back, shoulders sagging in defeat. Unable to bear looking at Jacob, he dropped his gaze and stared sullenly down at the wide manacles around his wrists. They were heavy, and worse than that, they were secure.

Jacob's hand came up and tenderly brushed Sam's cheek.

He flinched, recoiling as far as the chains allowed. "Don't touch me!"

"I've missed you, kiddo," Jacob replied, blind to Sam's disgust. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"You can't be real," Sam whispered, keeping his eyes rooted on the floor. Now that they were truly alone and he couldn't go anywhere, he was afraid to look. He didn't want to see the familiarity there despite the changes. He didn't want it to be reality.

"Oh, I'm real," Jacob assured him. "Let me guess: you wanna believe I'm someone else in disguise – the way Aunt Caroline disguised herself as your mama." He leaned in, hands reaching for Sam's waist. Startled, Sam jumped, but the chains held fast, and he couldn't stop Jacob from neatly tucking his shirt into his slacks. "Sorry, kiddo. It's really me. Think about it: who else could've pulled this off? Would the others have killed Benny for you?"

The reminder of his friend's death – caused by him – sucked the air from Sam's lungs. But, more than that, it _did_ make Jacob real, corroborating his claims. It wasn't a lie: none of the other Stynes were interested in him and they definitely wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to grab him as a tool against Dean. Still, Jacob's reappearance made no sense!

"You're supposed to be dead," Sam shakily protested, desperately clinging to the ideas that had got him through the endless sleepless nights.

"I know," Jacob assured him, pausing for a moment, his voice turning almost…wistful. "I remember it. You betrayed me, and that's something we'll have to work through, but I promise you, little brother: not even death is strong enough to keep us apart. I will always find my way back to you."

Sam cringed. Listening to Jacob was stifling; it felt like the walls were closing in. It was taking everything he had not to mentally plunge back to two years ago. The pain, the despair…the ache for a freedom that was always just out of reach. Why was this happening again? How was Jacob back?

Before he could utter the question, alarm spread through him as Jacob began unbuckling his belt.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, his apprehension rising.

"You're a Styne, little brother. You ought to look presentable." Jacob slid the belt from around his waist and carefully threaded it through the loops in the waistline of Sam's slacks. He pulled it snug and buckled it while Sam's face burned with humiliation. "There we go!" Next, Jacob reached up and loosened the tie from around his neck.

Sam shook his head. "Don't!" He knew exactly what Jacob wanted: to claim his territory by marking Sam as his brother. He remembered it from before. And the memory was sickening.

"I don't know why you insist on dressing like a hunter," Jacob said as he pulled off his tie. "You're a legacy. You're better than that riffraff… and besides, proper clothing suits you." He flipped up the collar of Sam's shirt, slid the tie around Sam's neck, and deftly tied it in a Windsor knot, ignoring the defined bulge of Sam's biceps as he tensed. As he smoothed Sam's collar back down, Jacob smiled in admiration. "Now that's more like it."

"I _am_ a hunter," Sam ground out through his teeth, raising his eyes to glare straight at Jacob. "And I am. A. _Winchester_!"

He heard the crack around the room before he felt the stinging blow against his cheek. Jacob grabbed his jawline, fingers digging in.

"We'll discuss this later, when you've had a chance to think about your actions. But know this, boy, you _will_ remember who you are, even if I have to retrace every step we went through to get you back there," Jacob hissed, his lip curled. He let go of Sam and stood without another word. Turning on his heel, Sam watched as he stalked from the attic, his shoes pounding against the steps before the sound of the door opening and closing followed.

The lock clicked home with resounding finality.

 **SPN**

Gemma returned to her quarters an hour after leaving Dean in the care of Giles and Jackson. She would not have lingered so long in the dining room had Dean been… serviceable, but she resigned herself to the inevitable delay. Dean was severely injured, and there would be no chance for her to play with him again tonight. Therefore, she took her time, eating some leftovers from their most recent harvest while nursing a glass of wine. Then, she rummaged through the kitchen pantry for the drink she'd promised Dean and made her way upstairs.

Giles and Jackson were standing guard in the corridor — Dean could not escape, but one could never be too careful. Both Winchesters had already proved to be a handful. And he was likely to be wound up: her declaration of a 'good' night for him was only a mild lie… but she needed to keep him anxious and guessing.

After dismissing them, Gemma entered her sitting room and locked the door. She paused, taking in her luxurious surroundings with a critical eye. This was not her home. Far from it. Having to reside in the States was bad enough, but Louisiana? It was a nightmare: far removed from the beauty of Switzerland.

If only she could pack Dean up and fly him over to Europe. How long would it take her to seduce him? Back in Vegas, when he thought she was a nice girl, he had been easy prey, but now he knew her name, and he despised her. He was stubborn, and strong, and defiant. The thought of his resistance filled her with excitement, and she could not remember the last time she was excited about anything. She wanted him more than she ever thought possible, and she found herself excusing Jacob for his preoccupation with Sam.

How much longer would she have to wait?

Taking a deep breath, Gemma ventured through the sitting room and into the bedroom, where she found Dean tied up on the floor, awake, but just barely. His clothes had been changed, and his open wounds were bandaged — if only to contain the blood. He was loosely gagged with a single cloth – a demonstration of power more than a deterrent from talking – and Gemma could see a red stain in the white cloth from his missing tooth.

As she stood over him, she waited for his beautiful green eyes to make their way up to her, and then she smiled, enjoying the clouded look in his gaze.

"Hello again, _härzli_ ," she cooed, watching in delight as he squirmed uncomfortably. Once he had his strength back, they would have so much fun together. "I brought you something for the pain." She showed him the bottle in her hands, and his brow furrowed in confusion. "Believe me, this is as much for me as it is for you," she giggled playfully, lowering herself onto the floor beside him and curling her legs beneath her. She slid a hand up his chest, marveling at the tremble beneath her fingertips. Slowly, she reached all the way up and hooked a finger through his gag, pulling it from his mouth almost tenderly.

"I don't want anything from you," he growled, but his voice was low and filled with pain. She pulled the stopper from the top of the small bottle, placing it carefully on the floor beside her.

Looking down at him, Gemma snaked a hand around the back of his head, lifting him up. "You honestly still think you have choices, don't you? Sorry, Dean, but what I say goes in this house."

He opened his mouth to retort and she rammed the neck of the bottle between his lips, giving an apologetic smile when she hit his teeth. Dean jerked, but she held fast, tipping the contents of the bottle into his mouth. "I know – it doesn't taste great, but after this, you'll be so much better," she promised, pulling the bottle away and clamping her hand over his mouth and nose when he reeled away. "C'mon, _härzli,_ be a good boy and swallow," she soothed, holding on tight. A strangled moan stuck in his throat as he thrashed weakly. Finally, she watched in satisfaction as he swallowed, unable to fight anymore. Gently, she removed her hand and stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers. "Once this works, we'll be able to have so much more fun."

She watched as his shoulders sagged almost instantly, his eyes blinking blearily.

"What did you do to me?" he slurred, unable to fight as she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

"Shush, sleep, _härzli._ It'll all be so much better when you wake," she whispered against his lips, watching as his eyes slid closed. She smiled, stroking his hair. "This is only the beginning."

 **SPN**

 **I'm on vacation this week and I'm not sure how much time I'll get to write, so the next update may take a little longer, but I'll do my best!**

 **Please review!**


	18. Rising Tension

**I am SO sorry for the delay! It's been a hectic few weeks with my holiday and then work being crazy. Thankfully, someone we all know and love has been helping me out from the wings so that I could get back on track.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana… January 18, 2008)**

For the first time since he'd been ripped out of Hell, Jacob slept a deep and uninterrupted sleep. It was the kind of sleep when everything was right in the world. He hadn't even realized how much his separation from his brother had caused an underlying sense of anxiety that hadn't truly registered until Sam was back in his possession. But now… Sam was safe back under the same roof as him and that feeling had gone, leaving him… euphoric.

He'd only slept for a couple of hours, but that was all he needed to feel energized, despite the long drive from Las Vegas. After a hot shower, he'd slipped on a new pair of black slacks and a charcoal shirt before standing in front of the mirror built into his wardrobe as he tied a new burgundy tie around his neck. It was still strange seeing different eyes staring back at him – he'd never needed to change his eyes during his last life – but he was slowly getting used to them. And to see Sam's reaction… the widening of his hazel eyes, the recognition, confusion and fear… it had been everything he'd hoped for. When he'd requested a psychic's eyes, Jacob had never thought that he'd get a pair that would actually help him transfer Sam's bond with the Winchester to himself. If he'd been a believer in fate, he would've taken it as a sign.

Walking across to the dresser, he opened the top drawer, gazing over the collection of cufflinks that sat in neat little cubes on the left-hand side. Carefully, he picked out a pair – perfect silver insignias of the Styne family crest – before shutting the drawer and threading them through the eyes in his cuffs. Standing back in front of the mirror, Jacob straightened out his sleeves, giving himself a final once-over. He needed to demonstrate to Sam that appearances were vital, even without specific events planned.

Sighing, he relished the thought of the years they would have together stretching out before them. He wasn't concerned about their Uncle Mortimer; yes, he wanted to get revenge on Sam, but Jacob would never allow him to do more than was necessary. Sam had already proved himself requiring of some much needed lessons and, if he was honest, Jacob was _almost_ tempted to let the Styne patriarch have his way. Almost. Perhaps it would demonstrate to Sam the power of his protection.

That he'd grown so defiant in two years was… aggravating. And yet, so exhilarating at the same time. Jacob had known that Sam would require work, but he'd never seen such a fire in the boy, not even when they'd first met. Breaking him this time was going to be tougher but so much more rewarding. And when he did…

Sam would be his, forever.

A soft knock at the door broke him from his reverie.

"Come in," he called, smiling when Gemma walked in, a spring in her step. She'd changed from the white cocktail dress into a pair of tailored low-cut jeans and a loose emerald blouse that somehow managed to emphasize her figure rather than mute it. "I don't think I've seen you out of a dress before," he commented as she walked over to his bed and flopped down on it.

"Well, I don't know how you break your horses here in the US, but in Switzerland, we don't wear such…impractical clothing as dresses," she grinned, running her hand over the coverlet on his bed. "Besides, he's a new challenge, ergo, a new look makes it more fun!"

Jacob scoffed as he shrugged on his jacket. "I can't imagine he's gonna be a whole lot of fun or use after his conversation with Uncle earlier."

"Oh, I don't know," Gemma winked at him, her smile mischievous. "With the elixir I gave him earlier, he'll be raring to go in… probably about a day."

Jacob's hands stilled as he looked up at her sharply. "Uncle Mortimer _let_ you use that?!"

"Of course: there's very little that I want that I don't get," she replied archly. "Besides, this benefits Father too."

"And yet he refused when I asked for Sam," Jacob grumbled as he yanked at his jacket sleeves.

"Poor Jacob," Gemma sighed, her words patronizing even though her tone wasn't. "He wants your toy to suffer for what he did. Dean… Dean didn't kill my brother."

"He's not a _toy_ ," Jacob growled. Gemma's gaze turned thoughtful, the playfulness dropping from her features as she turned serious. Jacob bore her scrutiny, feeling his irritation dim as she thought.

"Explain it to me, _schätzli_ : what is Sam to you?" she asked, clearly intrigued. And much to his surprise – especially considering her interest in Dean – Jacob found himself wanting to confide in her. Perhaps it was the fact that he saw so much of himself in her. Had anyone else in the house asked, he would have lied, but he could feel a growing kinship with his cousin.

"He's my brother," he replied simply. Her brow furrowed in confusion but not indignation, so he elaborated. "When we first snatched Sam, my father wanted to use him for the reincarnation ritual – seeing as how he's a Men of Letters legacy. But, Azazel stepped in: said Sam had a purpose and that we couldn't kill him. To placate the demon, Father agreed to adopt Sam into our family. I… enjoyed his company. Poking and prodding, learning what made him tick. He's nothing like the other hunters. He's…" he paused, searching for the memory, "Rhett said it best: Sammy's noble."

"And he joined you willingly?" Gemma inquired curiously. "Then why did we need to use such force?"

Jacob smiled, the look nostalgic as he sat on the bed beside her. "No, not in the slightest. He fought us every step of the way which made him all the more fun to teach. But then we… connected. We clicked. I can't really describe it, but he stopped being a brother in name only and he actually was… he became my brother. I felt it, and he felt it – no matter how hard he'll try to deny it. We share a bond that is truly special. He doesn't want it – Dean and the rest of them hunters have poisoned him against me. These past two years have set us back, but, given time, he'll come back to me. He won't be able to help himself. Our bond runs deep. Soon enough he'll rediscover his true heritage. I have no doubt."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Gemma stated rather than questioned, her eyes widening. "What if Father does want his revenge?"

"He can't have it," Jacob said simply. "Azazel would never let that happen."

"And what if _he_ comes for Sam?"

"That's not on the cards right now, but if he does, I'll be ready for him," Jacob explained grimly, his eyes hard.

"You realize you're not going to be able to stop everything Father wants to do," Gemma warned, placing her hand over his.

"Perhaps not, but I'll be there. And some of those moments are going to be valuable lessons for Sam. He's always required a firm hand," he smiled at her and she grinned back.

"Well that's certainly something we can accommodate for," she laughed, patting his knee affectionately.

"I answered yours…" Jacob started and then grimaced. "Dean? Really?!"

Gemma laughed again and bumped shoulders with him. "Sammy might be more to you, _schätzli,_ but I am a fickle creature: I _do_ need a toy."

Jacob frowned. "Just…" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Just make sure you watch him. He's not as stupid as he seems." It was an uncomfortable concession, but as much as Jacob despised Dean, the hunter _was_ a worthy opponent, and for the sake of their future, Gemma could not afford to underestimate him.

Gemma rolled her eyes, clucking her tongue. "He doesn't _seem_ stupid at all! Your prejudices run deep – he's quick-witted, whether you appreciate that or not. Besides, he's got such fire – I'm going to enjoy putting it out. I can think of multiple ways to do that too." Jacob raised an eyebrow at her, and she winked. "This isn't – what's the phrase? – my first rodeo."

"I'm sure," Jacob replied, rising off the bed. "I need to go back up and check on Sam. I doubt he's made any progress planning an escape, but I learned a long time ago, you can't be too careful with him." Besides, if Jacob knew his brother, the kid was no doubt scared and frustrated. Jacob didn't want to miss a moment.

"Enjoy," Gemma grinned, standing and sauntering from the room in front of him. Jacob watched her sashay down the hall, giving his head a small shake. She was insatiable… and soon that would result in Dean's suffering. While her methods would be different from his, he didn't think they would be any less effective. He grinned.

Following her out of the room, he turned in the other direction and made his way towards the attic, anticipation thrumming through his veins. Would the exhilaration of their reunion ever wear off?

God, he hoped not. He was enjoying it too much.

The lock snapped open and Jacob was greeted with the faint sound of chains clunking. He smiled. Sam: always the fighter. There was no way he could get out of his chains, but he always had to try. The upside of the restraints was that they helped the house's warding subdue Sam's powers. The warding wouldn't fail, but it didn't hurt to use some of the classics, particularly when dealing with a psychic as powerful as his brother.

Climbing the stairs, he listened to the melody of the chains clanking faster as his footfalls hit the stairs. He made his ascent deliberately slow and measured, enjoying the way he could almost feel the frantic atmosphere seeping from the attic above him. Turning his head, he looked over at his brother as the space came into view. Their eyes locked from across the room and peace settled in Jacob's chest once more.

Sam's eyes were wide and fearful but with frustration tinging the edges of his downturned mouth. His huge shoulders were tensed, arching inside his shirt as his hold on his manacles stilled. Jacob watched him try to wriggle backwards.

"Sammy…" Jacob began, his tone reproachful.

"Don't call me that!" Sam snapped, his fists clenching. Jacob walked over to him, crouching down in front of him. He grabbed Sam's chin, holding on when he tried to wrench away.

"Sammy," Jacob repeated, his lips curving in a half-smile. "I thought you were going to use this time to think about your actions? It doesn't sound like that's what you've done."

"Screw you," Sam spat through his teeth, his eyes seething. Jacob felt a shiver thrill up his spine. His fingers dug into Sam's cheeks, making him wince.

"Boy, if you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, I'm just gonna gag you again and leave it on until I think you've learnt your lesson. Is that what you want?" Jacob threatened softly, feeling the slight shake of Sam's head as his eyes widened before he looked away. Jacob gave him a small shake, demanding an answer. "Is it?"

"No," Sam whispered, keeping his eyes averted.

Jacob released his jaw. "I didn't think so. My patience only goes so far, boy, and you're already testing it. Didn't you sleep? You're exhausted and that's not going to help you."

Sam glared up at him as he sat back on his heels. "How am I supposed to sleep like this?" he asked, gesturing to the short chains by jerking on them, making them rattle.

"Consequences, little brother: there are always consequences for your actions, even if you don't realize them," Jacob shrugged. "There are lessons to be learned here and, so far, you're doing a bang-up job of ignoring them." He kept his tone calm, watching the way it made Sam react. His gaze flickered away again, unable to maintain eye contact. He knew Jacob was right. "But we have time. Although, I'm pretty sure Uncle Mortimer might be coming to pay you a visit soon." He watched Sam tense, silently considering the danger implications.

Eventually, Sam's gaze traveled back to Jacob's, his expression thoughtful and defiant. "Do they know? Do they know you killed Elizabeth?" he asked coldly. Jacob's eyes narrowed at the subtle threat. "You're a traitor, Jacob," the boy continued. "You picked a Winchester over your own family! How will they react when they find out? You think I won't tell them?"

Jacob's palm cracked across Sam's cheek, the younger man only staying upright because of the chain anchoring his left arm to the floor. His hair fell over his eyes and his cheek reddened, but he kept his head turned away from Jacob.

"Now, let's get one thing straight here, boy," Jacob growled. "You are _not_ a Winchester. You're a Styne. And Elizabeth was colluding with a demon to reunite with her wretched boyfriend. She's the traitor, and anyone in our family would've killed her for that offense. You think you can threaten me with that? You may be Styne, but your voice holds no weight against mine." Jacob reached out again, forcing Sam to look at him, feeling the heat of his reddened cheek as he held Sam with his gaze. "She deserved to die, and that's the way we all see it. Now, if you know what's good for you, you'll learn from Lilibet's mistakes and start behaving yourself!"

Silence crackled for a moment between them, tense and electric until Sam spoke, his voice quiet but full of malice. "Go to hell!"

Jacob growled with frustration, but then something occurred to him - a spark of inspiration - and he released Sam's face with renewed calm. "You want to take the hard road, fine. But the sooner you accept your rightful place in our family, the sooner we can fetch Cyrus, and get on with our lives."

"No…" Sam's response was instant and full of panic, his head shaking frantically. Good. He still cared for his youngest sibling – that was something Jacob could use. "Leave him alone – he's got nothing to do with you anymore! He's happy!"

"He's a Styne: he has everything to do with me. Cyrus needs to be with his _real_ family as much as anyone. I'm sure Uncle Mortimer already has plans to find him," Jacob lied, although he figured it wouldn't take much convincing to make it true. Cyrus _was_ a Styne and the idea of him running amok with a bunch of hunters wouldn't please Mortimer at all.

"Don't bring him back into this," Sam whispered, his gaze pleading. Already, Jacob could feel a new plan forming, one that could ensure Sam's eventual cooperation. He needed time to think it through, but, from Sam's reaction, he knew it would work.

"Sorry, kiddo, that's not your call," Jacob replied, reaching out to ruffle Sam's hair. It was longer than it had been and, while he still disliked it, there was no way he could cut it.

 _"Great. I'll look like Dean."_

The memory from the last time he'd suggested it coupled with Sam's smirk had put an end to that idea.

Sam jerked his head away and Jacob let his hand drop as he stood back up. "I'll be back to check on you in a while. Honestly, Sammy, get some rest. You're gonna need it."

Turning on his heel, Jacob walked back out without another word, Sam's silence trailing behind him.

 **SPN**

Charlotte walked into the sunroom, her eyes fixed on the rising glow of dawn which was beginning to stretch across the horizon through the windows that wrapped around the room. Like the rest of her family, she required little rest, especially since she hadn't accompanied the younger trio on their trip to Vegas. It still wasn't quite breakfast time: the staff wouldn't be coming in with their meal for another half an hour.

"Good morning, _schätzli_ ," she greeted Dario with the familiar endearment. The taller man sat at the round table that dominated the center of the room, a mug of coffee already steaming in his hand as he watched the world waken. Charlotte's hand traced across the back of his shoulders as she stepped up beside him, smiling down at her nephew. He turned to look up at her, his smile warm but his eyes hard.

"Good morning, Aunt Charlotte," he replied, taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles. "I trust you slept well?"

Charlotte smiled as she sat on the chair beside him. "Oh, you know me: nothing disrupts my sleep. You, however, look like you barely slept a wink. What's troubling you, _schätzli_?"

"I never could put anything past you, could I?" Dario gave her a soft half-smile. Of all his relatives, Dario didn't have the same kinship with any of them as he did with his aunt. His own parents were long gone and Charlotte had swiftly stepped in as their replacement, their bond only growing stronger when they'd both lost Victor. His cousin's death had been a hard blow for Dario; they'd wreaked havoc together growing up and many of his more… insatiable appetites had come from Victor's tuition. His aunt had doted on them both, giving them whatever they desired to sate their needs. It was something she'd continued to do for him after her son's death, finding her own solace in the act. He met her eye, giving a small shrug. "I just feel like we're wasting time. The Winchester would've given in if I'd been given more time."

"Oh, Dario: always so eager," Charlotte chided warmly as she stroked his cheek. "Did you not see the look in his eyes? Those whelps aren't going to break easily. Sometimes, you have to play a longer game to get what you want. You know that."

"Do we? Or are we just pandering to Gemma and Jacob's desires?" Dario grumbled. "I don't like the way either of them are fawning over the hunters."

"Not every battle is won with pain, _schätzli_ ," Charlotte explained, her tone serious but not reprimanding. "Gemma's tactics – mixed with yours – will prove much more effective against the older one. As for Jacob, he knows his place. He has history with Samuel, but that doesn't mean anything and that certainly won't get in the way of our plans."

"I don't trust him."

Charlotte nodded her agreement. "I know; I don't either, but Jacob is of little consequence and, currently, he's not in your uncle's best books following what you said about the vampire." A smirk twitched on Dario's lips. He'd made sure to recount the whole journey to his uncle before Jacob or Gemma had the chance to have their input. It was their just desserts for ruining his fun. He felt himself sober at the thought of the missed opportunities.

"Oh, Dario, you know I don't like to see you so down-heartened," Charlotte sighed, patting his hand. Suddenly, her eyes brightened. "I know: how about I set you up with a few harvests for after you've helped your uncle? Jackson says they caught a real screamer yesterday: that should cheer you up!"

Dario's grin was broad as he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "I'd like that, thank you."

"Good morning, all." They both turned at the voice which was accompanied by footsteps clicking against the marble floor as Mortimer entered the sunroom. He walked to Charlotte first, giving her a brief kiss on the lips before giving Dario a curt nod across the table. As if on cue, the staff appeared, their arms laden with trays full of a variety of food which were laid out on a long pristine sideboard that enabled the family to pick and choose their own breakfast. Mortimer sat at the table first, watching Jackson as he filled his cup with coffee, leaving it black. "Where are Gemma and Jacob?"

"I doubt Gemma will come down for breakfast," Charlotte replied, sipping at her green tea which Giles had poured for her.

"Jacob is probably with the whelp," Dario offered from near the sideboard as he piled his plate with cold cuts of meat.

" _Jacob_ is right here." The three of them turned as Jacob entered, making his way to the food table first.

Mortimer's eyes narrowed slightly before he looked back at his wife. "Why do you doubt Gemma will come?"

"You know what's she's like when she gets involved in a new project – especially after a period of tedium," Charlotte shrugged as Jacob sat down with his own breakfast. "Considering she's used the elixir on the Winchester, it's probably best she stays with him anyway. While that mixture is supposed to heal the recipient, it can be temperamental with those outside of the family bloodline. I'd be disappointed if he died before we have what we need from him."

"Indeed. The loss of someone who knows the book's location would be most unfortunate," Mortimer replied, his tone civil but his glare fixed pointedly at Jacob. He watched a muscle twitch in his nephew's jaw.

"That couldn't be helped," Jacob remarked, matching his uncle's tone. "If we had known the vampire was going to appear, we would have set an adequate trap. The fact is, we were unprepared and in a public place. Retrieval was not possible with him – not without compromising Sam."

"And yet, _he's_ the Winchester that's of little consequence – except as leverage," Dario goaded.

Jacob ignored him. "If I had let the vampire live, he would have got into the van and let Sam loose. We've gone to enough trouble to keep the boy's abilities under control as it is. If he'd escaped, we'd be dead and all we'd gain would be a swarm of hunters out for more blood. The book would be gone forever. So, yes, I made a judgement call. But I did it to protect this family."

"So you say," Dario grumbled petulantly. Mortimer shot him a glare that made him bow his head and look away.

"While I'm not pleased with the resulting death, you _did_ demonstrate an awareness of the bigger picture," Mortimer remarked, turning his cold gaze back to Jacob as Jackson laid out plates of food for him and Charlotte. "The family comes first: it always does. In that respect, you made the right call. What's done is done. We'll work with the resources we have left."

The four of them lapsed into silence momentarily as they ate. Jacob smirked, feeling the frustration rolling off Dario with every glare he shot towards him. It was clear that he'd wanted to get Jacob in trouble with their uncle. Yet again, he was wrong, and Jacob couldn't resist letting his smugness show.

Charlotte wiped her lips delicately with her napkin. "What are everyone's plans for today?"

"The boys are going to help me with the whelp while Gemma sees to Dean," Mortimer answered, his tone brooking no disagreement – not that Jacob was going to protest. Hell, he'd warned Sam of the consequences of his actions and the need for his retraining. Now it was time for him to learn that lesson and perhaps Jacob could use the situation to his advantage: to show Sam that he was his best – no, his only – ally.

"He might know something useful to us – they're clearly the type to confide in each other. I wouldn't be surprised if the runt knows the book's location," Mortimer speculated. "But, if not, he'll be a useful warning for his brother."

They each fell silent again, Jacob fighting to suppress the unease that bristled at his uncle's words and the sadistic glint in Dario's eye. Their conversation with Sam was going to test his skills of deception more than he'd had to do for a long time. But it would be fine; it always was.

 **SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota… January 18 2008)**

A rhythmic drumming beat through the living room, the sound hollow against the leather-bound journal Bobby's fingers were thumping against. He'd been up most of the night reading up on naguals for one of Ellen's contacts and, while the research had been fruitful, a sense of tension had settled in his gut around 3am and he hadn't been able to shift it.

Periodically, throughout the night, the hunter had found himself glancing over at his phone, waiting to see it light up. It had been two days since he'd left a message with Dean, one since he'd left another with Sam, and yet neither of them had called or texted him. While they were grown men and on holiday, the lack of response wasn't normal; they always checked their phones. Bobby had expected at least a text.

Checking the clock on the wall, Bobby mentally calculated the time difference and the likelihood of the boys being awake. Realising it was still technically the middle of the night in Las Vegas, he made the decision to wait another couple of hours before calling again. Standing up and grabbing his empty coffee mug, Bobby wandered to the kitchen, unable to quell the uneasiness in his gut.

 **SPN**

 **(Shreveport, Louisiana… January 18, 2008)**

"SAM!"

Sam woke with a start, his head lifting off his knees. His eyes darted around, disorientated, the echo of Dean's call lingering in his mind as he tried to get his bearings.

Darkness. Attic.

 _Jacob_.

Bile rose in his throat as the pieces fell back into place and he groaned softly in the quiet, wishing that he was anywhere else in the world. Unwrapping his arms from around his legs, Sam stretched them out, his knees cracking. He hadn't meant to fall asleep – he hadn't assumed he even could, sitting in such an uncomfortable position – but his exhaustion had been all-consuming and in the darkness of the attic, the silence had overwhelmed him. It was stifling – laden with the threat of unspoken malice, ratcheting Sam's anxiety up once more. As much as he wanted to avoid all the Stynes, if they were with him, he knew they weren't with Dean. Right now, they could be doing anything to his brother and he was powerless to stop them. Knowing it was futile, Sam tried pushing out with his mind again, trying to feel that familiar mental tug that came with using any of his abilities.

Nothing.

He couldn't remember what it used to feel like before his powers were brought forth, but he could hazard a guess that this was exactly what it felt like. The vulnerability that spread through him like a poison was taking root, driving home the doubts and fears that had resurfaced and refreshed themselves.

A click snapped in the silence, sending Sam's stomach plummeting as the lights above him burst into life, forcing his eyes closed against the sudden brightness. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as multiple footsteps thumped up the stairs. Sam opened his eyes, casting a sideways look towards the attic's entrance, his hair falling across his forehead as he glared up at Mortimer, Dario and Jacob. The latter locked eyes with him, but Sam found himself unable to discern Jacob's expression. Somehow, that was more unsettling than Jacob's usual display of affection. Sliding his eyes to Mortimer, he shifted uncomfortably as the trio stopped in front of him.

"Where's my brother?" he demanded, his tone full of a confidence that he didn't feel. He saw the barely perceptible nod from the patriarch just before Dario stepped forward and backhanded Sam across the face so hard that the chain anchoring his right wrist to the floor was the only thing that kept him upright.

"Let me make one thing absolutely clear, whelp: you have no power here. You don't get to ask questions, you have no say in anything. You answer what I ask and that's it," Mortimer snapped, his mouth downturned with disdain as he crossed his arms. Dario circled around Sam, his eyes riveted on him as he moved, making the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand on end. Sam kept his eyes on Mortimer but said nothing, letting the Styne see his defiance – rather than his submission – in his glare. His look faltered at the sound of Dario's deliberate footsteps moving around him until he was back in front of him again. Sam glanced uncertainly at Jacob, wondering if he could use the bastard's reactions to gauge Mortimer's threat level. So far, Jacob remained unperturbed.

Misinterpreting the look, Dario crouched down in front of Sam with a cruel smirk. "I don't know what kind of history you boys have, but trust me, Jacob's not the one you should be worried about right now."

It took all his discipline, but Sam forced himself to scoff. "You think I'm worried? Every time you idiots come after us, you're the ones who die!" He risked another glance toward Jacob. "Including _you_." He saw a flicker of anger dart through Jacob's eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He knew he'd pay for it later, but, hell, he was already in way over his head. At least getting in a few jabs at them made him feel like he still had some control.

Dario grabbed Sam roughly by the jaw, digging his fingers in enough to bruise. Sam recoiled, his wrists straining uselessly against the shackles. Dario was close enough for Sam to lash out, but there wasn't enough slack in the chains for him to put any real force behind an attack, making it a waste of energy. Instead, he watched stiffly as Dario leaned in, their faces just inches apart.

With his free hand, Dario aimed his thumb for Sam's eye, barely giving him time to close it. He was gentle when his thumb made contact – making Sam squirm since he'd expected a jab – but the underlying intention was painfully clear. "Aren't psychics stronger when they're blind?" Dario taunted. "I could be doing you a favor."

Slowly, he added pressure, gradually pushing his thumb harder against Sam's eye, without actually causing damage, his grip on his jaw stopping Sam from jerking his head away. It might be a bluff: Jacob wasn't interfering... But then again, Jacob had once threatened to cut out Sam's tongue: maybe he wouldn't stop him; losing an eye wasn't life-threatening. And Dario _was_ sadistic. Sam writhed uncomfortably, painfully aware of the throbbing in his eye socket, but trying to find logic in their actions. If Dario actually wanted to blind Sam, he would just do it.

"Leave his eye, Dario," Mortimer interrupted. "Let's not forget, he killed Victor. I plan on spending a lot of time getting an apology for that crime, and we may need his sight to help with that. Think of all the atrocities we can show him."

"He is a visual learner," Jacob remarked, a crooked smile on his lips.

Sam stiffened. As much as he hated to admit it, Jacob knew his weaknesses. Being forced to watch their damned harvests had been among the most traumatic experiences of his long captivity in their safe house, and Jacob understood that all too well.

Dario was close enough to observe Sam's reaction, which made him chuckle. "Well, if I can't take your eyes out, at least I'll have other victims in the near future –" he leaned in to whisper as he removed his thumb, "– with you in the front-row seat."

"Go to hell," Sam ground out through his teeth. Dario released his jaw only to seize him round the back of his neck. Then, his other hand clamped over Sam's mouth and nose. Sam's eyes widened, and a grunt stuck in his throat as he tried to shake free, but the Stynes, with their enhancements, would always be stronger.

"Let's play a game," Dario proposed cheerfully. "I'll smother you for a minute, and then, while you catch your breath, we'll ask you a question. If we don't like your answer, I'll smother you for another minute, and so on. You're stubborn, that's true, but maybe the oxygen deprivation will loosen your tongue. If not, there's plenty more I can try."

Sam glared at him, hatred coursing through his veins. It didn't take long for his lungs to start burning, and he bucked with more urgency, chains rattling as he struggled. His eyes sought out Jacob, only to find an amused expression on his face. After all, it was just a 'game.' Dario wasn't threatening to cause permanent damage, so Jacob had no incentive to stop him. Sam would just have to ride it out.

The minute passed, and Dario uncovered Sam's face, but held onto his neck. "Where can we find our spell book?" he asked while Sam frantically breathed in a mouthful of air. "Where did your brother hide it?"

Steeling himself, Sam snarled at Dario. "Screw you!"

Dario smirked, planting his hand back over Sam's mouth and nose. Meanwhile, Mortimer approached, towering over Sam from behind Dario. "I hope you appreciate your predicament, _drecksau_. You have what we want and you're willfully keeping it from us. But, what's worse is that you killed my son, and for that, I will make the rest of your life a living hell." He sneered down at Sam who made a muted noise in his throat, his glare angry and defiant. "Death is too good for _you_. However… I am not an unreasonable man. If you cooperate, your brother doesn't have to suffer any more than he already has."

Dario's hand lifted from his face and Sam drew in a huge gulp of air. He coughed as the air rasped down his throat and it took a moment before he could fix his glare back up on Mortimer.

"So you're just gonna leave Dean alone? What do you think I am, stupid? You Stynes are all the same: narcissistic and cruel. You're not gonna leave Dean alone any more than you will me," he retorted, shying away even as Dario's hand clamped back on his face.

"You're right," Mortimer shrugged, his eyes cold. "He won't come out of this alive. But he doesn't have to share your fate. We'll kill him quickly and cleanly. But only if you tell me where the book is."

His words lingered in the silence as the three Stynes stared down at Sam, Dario's grip only seeming to get tighter as the seconds stretched out further. Panic began to bubble in Sam's chest as Dario held on past the minute. His eyes widened and he looked to Jacob again, reading the Styne's answer to his unspoken plea in the smallest of shrugs.

 _I warned you._

Fire licked through his lungs and Sam thrashed against the chains holding his arms down. Dario's grin was wide and vicious, a baring of teeth as he held the younger man's gaze.

Finally, just when Sam didn't think he could stand it any longer, Dario's hand lifted once more and his whole body sagged, exhausted already. Catching his breath, Sam waited a moment, knowing they'd want another answer before Dario replaced his hand again.

"You won't," he murmured, panting as he lifted his head up to look at Mortimer. "You'll kill him however you want. You'll make it excruciating because you want me to suffer. But I'll tell you this: Dean can handle himself. You can threaten him all you want, and you can bargain all you want, but we both know you're full of crap. So go screw yourself!"

Dario came down on him hard, clamping his hand over his face with more aggression than before. Desperate, Sam slid his legs out from under him and tried to kick his oppressor away. Grunting, Dario scooted around him, releasing his neck only to wrap his arm around his chest, all the while keeping his hand firmly over Sam's mouth and nose. He brought his mouth down to Sam's ear. "The longer you fight, the longer we play. So by all means, don't give up."

Unable to breathe, Sam couldn't even moan, but he thrashed with all his strength in a futile effort to dislodge the bigger man. Twisting, rocking, kicking, it was all he could do not to panic. Even though he knew they would keep him alive, the complete lack of oxygen filled him with instinctual desperation.

He needed to breathe.

 _Don't_ , he told himself, _don't look at Jacob._

The Styne would only solidify how bleak his predicament really was. But even as Sam thought it, his gaze drifted, against his will, toward the older man. Satisfaction lit up Jacob's expression and Sam ripped his eyes away, knowing exactly what he was thinking. White spots began to explode across his vision, his struggles weakening.

The hand disappeared and Sam's chest heaved mightily.

"I would take this moment to apologize," Dario suggesting mockingly, his arm unwrapping from Sam's chest. Still struggling to gulp in enough air, Sam shook his head emphatically, barely getting out a groan before Dario smothered him yet again. His head was jammed between the man's hand and his barrel-like chest, leaving him no room to escape. Heart racing, Sam felt panic jangle through his nerves; he'd barely caught his breath! He felt Dario shift and he squirmed, but the Styne held fast as he reached out. Sam's eyes tracked his movement and he jerked his hand away as Dario reached for it. The two grappled for a moment, but the chain limited Sam's range of movement and within seconds Dario had hold of his hand, his grip reaching out for the splint holding Sam's broken fingers. Sam writhed desperately, but he couldn't dislodge his tormentor.

"Manners cost nothing where I come from," Dario sneered as he wrenched on Sam's fingers. Sam's scream lodged in his throat, unable to escape as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He looked desperately to Jacob again but the older man simply smiled at him – _almost_ sympathetically – before turning to Mortimer.

"Uncle, if I may?" Jacob started calmly, his face remaining impassive as Mortimer turned to face him. "I think I have something which might help…persuade both of our guests and benefit us as well."

Mortimer fixed him with a curious gaze. "What is it?"

"My youngest brother: Cyrus," Jacob explained. A choked sound came from Sam and Jacob slid his gaze over, a wry smile on his lips. "When my father fostered Sam for Azazel, he grew close to Cyrus. I would imagine that they've remained close – I would assume that one of his contacts has been looking after the boy." The chains clanked as Sam fought harder, Mortimer's eyebrow rising at his reaction as Jacob continued. "Allow me to find him and bring him back. He _should_ be with his real family anyway, but I know he'll be useful in our search for the book."

Mortimer pondered his suggestion as he adjusted the cuff of his jacket sleeve with little urgency. Eventually, he looked up, his arms dropping to his sides. "Thank you, Dario; that'll do."

The Styne dropped his hold on Sam, the latter sagging the moment he let go, his energy entirely spent.

"You can't…" Sam moaned, barely able to catch his breath, his voice laden with agony. "Don't bring him into this!" Dario gave him one last cuff across the head as he stood up and walked back to his uncle's side. "Jacob, don't!"

"Come. We have arrangements to make," Mortimer instructed, ignoring Sam's protest. He turned and walked back towards the attic's entrance, Dario following behind him.

"I'll be there in a moment," Jacob called, meeting Dario's disapproving look as the latter left. Sam watched them disappear and Jacob approach, hunkering down in front of him. He flinched as Jacob's hand came up to cup his chin, his thumb stroking Sam's cheek tenderly as he looked him in the eye. "I told you I was your ally in this place."

"You didn't stop him," Sam accused, his tone bitter.

"You needed to learn your lesson," Jacob shrugged, his eyes unapologetic as he smiled. "But it's alright. They won't be around for long. I'll get Cyrus back and soon we'll be a real family again. I promise."

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


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